Déjà vu All Over Again
by makealist
Summary: A bomb was set off and the world as we know it was changed forever, but as a nerdy physicist once said "Whatever happened, happened", ergo what was meant to be was meant to be. This is the story of what was meant to be.
1. Stuck on an Airplane

**So, I am 100% totally new to the world of Fan Fiction, but I was so devastated by the S5 finale, and have just been spinning yarns in my head for various happier endings. I have some more thoughts on this one, but have written so much for now that Part 2 will have to wait.**

Sawyer twisted uncomfortably in his seat. Damn last minute tickets, and stuck in the middle seat. Well, as long as he didn't have to speak to either of his seatmates. He'd been stuck next to a Chatty Cathy on the connecting flight from LA, and if he had to spend the entire flight to Miami listening to someone blab on about their boring job, he'd lose it.

The window seat had already been occupied when he sat down. An older woman with a "Word Find" book. "Uh oh," he thought. Those didn't take a lot of attention and left plenty of brain space for inane conversation. So, as soon as she looked up at him and said "Hello," he'd responded with a grunt and the best "back off" sneer he could muster. That seemed to do the trick, and she ducked her head back to her word find. His shaggy hair and gruff exterior came in handy yet again.

No one was in the aisle seat yet, but he planned to pull the same trick on whatever fellow traveler had the misfortune of holding ticket 16D. Hell, maybe no one would take the seat, although that was unlikely. Here in Cincinnati there was a cold drizzle, but apparently things were much worse up in Chicago. Watching the flight monitors at the gate, he'd seen flight after flight to O'Hare delayed. Now the whole system was backing up, and this flight was already 15 minutes behind schedule.

He opened his book, but kept a wary eye on the passengers filing down the aisle. A fat guy in a Chicago Bears jersey. God, please, no. Phew. The Fridge took a seat a few rows in behind Sawyer. Here came a pimply teenager with blaring head phones. Eh, could be worse. Mr. Clearasil slowed as he approached row 16. But he was the window passenger across the aisle.

Then he saw _her._ "Sweet Jesus, let her be the one to sit here," Sawyer thought. She was a dark-haired, olive-skinned beauty. And her low-cut, tight fitting halter top left little to the imagination. And tight jeans, too? Damn. Visions of joining the Mile High Club danced in his head. He even attempted eye contact as she headed down the aisle toward him . . . and passed right on by. Leaning into the empty aisle seat he craned his head to get a view from behind. Well, damn, there she was sitting with Mr. Chicago Bears. Some guys have all the luck.

"Excuse me."

Images of the dream occupant of 16D were still running wild in his brain. "Huh?"

"That's my seat."

He straightened up. "Sorry."

It was the actual occupant of 16D, and, luckily for Sawyer, she wasn't bad looking, either. A tall blonde woman, with her hair in a loose ponytail. Of course, the long-sleeved t-shirt and loose fitting jeans couldn't compare with the Mile High Mistress a few rows back, but this lady was better than Mr. Clearasil. Even better, though, she dropped a fat copy of _Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince_ onto her seat prior to stuffing her bag in the overhead bin. It was the universal gesture for "Don't talk to me, I'm going to be reading," and he couldn't be more pleased. He'd intimidated Mrs. Word Find into silence, and now Blondie here seemed as uninterested in chit-chat as he was.

That settled, he could get back to his book. He'd only gotten a few paragraphs in when the blonde's phone buzzed. Great -- a cell phone chatter. He looked at her in irritation as she answered. She made an apologetic face before starting her conversation.

"Yeah. I made the flight – barely. Well, they're delayed here, too. No, it's not too bad, but apparently things are pretty dicey up in Chicago . . . I don't know . . . I'll let you know when I know more . . .I'll be there as soon as I can . . .How's he doing? . . .. OK, see you when I see you . . . Love you, too. Bye." She clicked off.

She looked at him apologetically. "Sorry about that. My dad had a heart attack this morning. I've been trying all day to get back home. That was my sister."

Now he felt shitty for giving her a mean look, but what's done is done he figured. "Sorry to hear that."

But all this chatter was just enough to pull Mrs. Word Find back into the conversation. "I'm sorry about your father, dear. I'll say a prayer for him."

"Thank you," said the blonde, picking up her book, a clear signal that the conversation was over.

"You may think prayer doesn't help, but it does," continued Window Seat.

"Shit," thought Sawyer as he glanced at Aisle Seat. He noticed then how startlingly blue her eyes were. Her face was really very kind. "Shit," he thought again. No way was sweet Aisle Seat going to be able to shut down Window Seat. Now it was going to be conversation city all the way to Miami.

"I appreciate it," was Aisle Seat's response, and she again returned to her book.

"You may not be a Christian – your reading material seems a little troubling," (Aisle Seat looked questioningly at the cover of her _Harry Potter_ book at that remark) "But there are times when we could all use a little Jesus in our life."

Now when Sawyer glanced over at Aisle Seat he saw a look that could cut glass. Gone was the soft and kindly face he'd seen just moments before. Why wasn't Window Seat shutting up? An odd thought fleetingly crossed his mind, "Lady, when she looks at you like that, she means for you to SHUT UP." But how did he know that? He'd never seen Aisle Seat before in his life. None of it mattered, though, because Window Seat kept right on trucking, "I don't mean to pass judgment. . . "

Aisle Seat cut her off right there. "Well then, don't. Just because our tickets both say '16' doesn't give you any special insight into what I'm thinking."

Window Seat's mouth closed with an audible pop. "Way to go, Aisle Seat," thought Sawyer. He tried to discreetly give her a thumbs up, but he doubted she saw it. Plus, she was right, just because they were both sitting in Aisle 16, he had no special insight into what she was thinking. How odd, though, that minutes ago, he felt like he knew EXACTLY what she was thinking?

* * *

Why did she have to go and do that? She had been downright rude to the older woman in the window seat, and why? OK, she was being nosy and presumptive, but that was no need to be so snappy. And it wasn't as if her dad couldn't use some prayer. After a childhood spent in Sunday School it wasn't as if she was even anti-religious. Juliet wanted to apologize immediately, but didn't care to give the woman another chance to reopen her conversation.

It had just been a really long, bad day, she thought. That's all. She was at the end of her rope. The phone call had come at 6:30 that morning. Rachel was at the hospital and frantic. Juliet's brain was still sleep-fogged, and her first worry was that something had happened to Julian, or that Rachel's cancer was back. She heard some of Rachel's words "Dad . . . morning jog . . collapsed . . . hospital." But she kept asking the wrong questions, "Is Julian OK, and you're fine?" "JULIET! Listen to me! . . . Dad's had a heart attack!!"

All the words fell into place. For a man in his mid-60s, their dad was in remarkable health. A heart attack after his morning jog? Rachel had just gotten to the hospital, and had few details, but it seemed serious, and she thought Juliet should come home as soon as she could.

She had been scheduled to be at Stanford for two more days. She'd already given her guest lectures, but now planned to do a bit of collaborating with her cross-country colleagues. They didn't get all that much time to meet and share data face to face. Well, she'd have to do it another time. She'd just take the first San Francisco to Miami flight she could get.

But nothing was easy. She thought she might just be able to make a 9:00 flight. First she needed to get in touch with Dr. Hill, the department chair she'd been working with. She'd promised to share some interesting results with him, and she wanted to give them to him before she left. It was so early, though, and when she finally got in touch with him, she decided to simply email them to him. She was getting ready to hit "send" on her email when her room's wireless connection conked out.

In the business center, she was able to send her email, but not before getting another frantic call from Rachel. Things weren't looking great with Dad. "Look, I'm on a 9:00 flight out of here, and should be home by 7 tonight, OK?"

But it wasn't to be. Her cab to the airport got a flat, and by the time a new cab came to pick her up, they were in the heart of rush hour traffic. There was no time to make it through security, and she missed her flight. The ticket agent was courteous, if not particularly nice, and re-booked her on a flight through Cincinnati. She wouldn't be home by 7, but she would be home tonight, she promised Rachel.

But that flight had mechanical problems, and was 45 minutes late getting to Cincinnati. She'd only made this connection because it, too, was late.

She really was at the end of her rope. All she wanted was to get home. How difficult could it be? But at every step of the way she was thwarted. Her wi-fi, the cab, the traffic, the airplane . . .

Frantic. That was the only way to describe her current state of mind. SHE HAD TO GET HOME. Was it too much to ask? She tried to lose herself in _Harry Potter_, but found herself chewing her lips, chewing her nails, reading the same paragraphs over and over. Home! That's all I want, she thought again. And now she was getting irritated at the nosy window passenger all over again. Sitting over there doing her inane word find puzzles. How boring! How mindless! Must be nice.

At least she felt like she had an ally in the man in the center aisle. She'd felt like such a bitch when she'd insulted the older lady, but the man in the center aisle had given her a quick smile and flashed a brief thumbs up. When he did she noticed how very good looking he was. She didn't normally go for the shaggy type, but it was nice to know that for as long as they sat on this plane, he'd have her back if her window seat tormentor started in again.

She had actually begun to make progress in her book when the intercom clicked on. "OK, sorry folks, but we're still delayed. Things are just really backed up right now. But we hope to get you out of here soon, so just sit tight and relax, and we'll provide updates as soon as we've got them."

"Son of a bitch," snarled her aisle ally. That earned him a searing look from the window seat busybody, which he pointedly ignored as he turned to Juliet.

"You know, you'd think if you were sitting on the tarmac for longer than half an hour, they'd at least bring the drink cart around. This would be easier to handle with a cold beer."

Juliet agreed. A cold beer, a nice wine, anything to take the edge off of this frantic, helpless, holding pattern. Then she had a realization.

"I totally forgot!" she declared, and stood up, rummaging in the overhead bin. She pulled out a tiny bottle of Mount Gay Rum.

"I was on first class on the way here, and never got around to drinking this. Care for some?" She extended the tiny bottle to him.

"Ladies first," he said.

And so she unscrewed the lid and took a long sip before handing him the half-empty bottle. "Mmmmmm . . ." he said appreciatively.

But she wasn't listening. Or looking. The warmth of the rum shot through her throat and out to her extremities. But it wasn't the alcohol that gave her this weird feeling. It was . . .this place. . .no, not this place. This was just an airplane. But the feeling was so odd. She wanted desperately to get home. She needed to get home, but she had been thwarted at every opportunity. And she was sitting here and her last, best opportunity seemed to be fading away, too. And she was drinking rum straight from the bottle, because why the hell not? And she was sharing with this man. This scruffy, but handsome man whose name she didn't even know, but instinctively felt comfortable with.

It was a déjà vu from hell, and it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

"Hey . . ." the man in the aisle was snapping his fingers in front of her face. "You still there, Blondie?"

She snapped back to reality. Blondie? She should have been insulted. She hated it when men made judgements based on looks. But she wasn't at all insulted. Surprisingly, she was charmed. She smiled. "Sorry. Just distracted."

"No problem," he said. "My name's James."

He held out a hand for her to shake.

"Juliet" she said, returning his handshake.


	2. 18 Hours

**Thanks for all the positive words, everyone. The good news is that I now have a definite feel for where this is going; beginning/middle/end. The bad news is that life might interfere some with my ability to actually get it all written down. And, the other news (good or bad, depending on what you think of it), is that this might end up being many chapters long. So, here's part 2. Thanks for reading.**

Damn. Now why in the world had he gone and told her his real name? When was the last time he'd done that? Ah, hell. It didn't matter. With any luck, they'd be off the ground soon and in Miami before closing time. It didn't matter what he did or didn't tell her. With any luck, they'd be parting company a little over three hours from now.

"So, James, is your trip to Miami business or pleasure? Or do you live there?"

"None of the above; I'm going to my uncle's funeral in Immokalee."

"I'm really sorry." Her voice and face were both filled with concern. She really _was_ sorry, he realized.

He liked his solitary life. Doing what he did, it made absolutely no sense to make real connections. But, man, there were times like this, few and far between, when he longed to be honest. No more lies. Just let someone feel sorry for him. Explain how his uncle had been there for him when he was a kid. And how despite that, he'd spent a good part of the past two decades doing everything he could to distance himself from his family.

"Was it sudden? Your uncle's death?"

"A heart . . ." he nearly ate the last word . . "attack."

Shit, isn't that why she was flying home? Hadn't her dad had a heart attack this very morning? Yep. Those blue eyes, which had become more and more mesmerizing, had filled with tears. Dammit. This. This right here was why he was no good at this sort of thing. Making women cry was somewhat of a specialty of his, but watching those incredible eyes film over with tears was more than he could take. See where honesty gets you?

"Hey .. . now, don't worry 'bout a thing. My Uncle Jake smoked three packs a day since 1961. And he weighed at least 300 pounds. Something tells me your daddy ain't a big overweight chimney."

That got a chuckle and set her to talking about her dad. How the heart attack was a surprise, he jogs five days a week, keeps in great shape, jogs with her a few times a month, even. She seemed very close to her dad, and he loved listening to her talk. And what a relief to just listen. He wasn't looking for clues or "ins" that he could later use in some sort of scheme against her. So refreshing, and endearing, when on two occasions she slipped and didn't say "my father," but "Daddy."

She stopped suddenly.

"I'm sorry. I'm babbling."

"Well, you only kept me from telling some of my favorite Uncle Jake tales." And then Sawyer launched into some of them. The time he and his cousins spilled a can of paint in their grandparents' upstairs room, and Uncle Jake helped them cover it up. The time they stole Uncle Jake's _Playboys _and took them down to the creek, only to run smack dab into a Baptist revival. The time Uncle Jack set off a bottle rocket in Grandpa's shed.

Christ, now he was doing it. Babbling. Juliet probably just wanted to get back to her book. He was as bad – no, worse – than Tammy Faye Bakker over there in the window seat. At least she had the common courtesy to stick to her Word Find, and not tell ridiculous tales of her hick uncle. He could see it now. Juliet would get to the hospital in Miami, and when her sister asked about her flight she'd say, "It was fine, except this yutz sitting next to me insisted on talking about his redneck family."

"Well, I'll let you get back to your book," he said.

"Thanks," said Juliet.

* * *

He probably thought she was thanking him for leaving her to her book. But, the truth was, she was thanking him for his thoughtfulness. She's felt comfortable telling him about her dad, and before she got too maudlin, James stepped in to talk about his crazy uncle. More than once she'd laughed out loud at some turn in his stories. For once on this God-forsaken day she wasn't thinking of how desperate she was to get home. Maybe it was just a five-minute reprieve, but it had been nice.

She was even able to enjoy her book with a clear mind, getting through a whole chapter without glancing at her watch or fretting over how much longer they were going to be sitting on this damn plane. Likewise, she noticed James reading -- _Watership Down_. She fought the urge to tease him over his reading material, then remembered she, too, was reading "Young Adult Fantasy."

A motion across the aisle caught her attention. The man sitting there had his arms lifted over his head and his eyes closed. He began a series of hums and elaborate stretches from the confines of his seat. Far be it for her, who had only recently turned to alcohol to cut the stress, to judge her fellow passenger's stress-relief technique. But, good grief, he looked like an idiot. She cut her eyes to him and tried to keep from laughing. No, she wouldn't laugh.

Of course, at that very minute, James leaned in and whispered, "Buddy over there looks like the next incarnation of the Dalai Lama." And that was it. A torrent of giggles until she could catch her breath. And when she did, she turned to James and said, "I was thinking more _Karate Kid_. 'Mr. Miyagi says Daniel-san must be patient on planes.'" And now it was James's turn to laugh – a hearty bark.

But their jollity was short lived. The intercom clicked in again. "OK folks. I'm afraid I've got some really bad news. In addition to the problems in Chicago, the storms north and east of here are blocking us in, too. I'm afraid this flight has been canceled. We have gate agents standing by to assist you with your travel plans, and I apologize for the inconvenience."

Immediately the plane was in an uproar. Complaints, moans, shouts, people flipping up their cell phones. Everyone began to file out.

Bedlam prevailed in the terminal. Theirs wasn't the only canceled flight, and it looked like every man for himself to find another way home.

Juliet got in the shortest line she could find. She HAD to get home. She just had to. Window Seat Word Find Lady was right in front of her. Just great. And to make it worse, in the hustle and bustle of the terminal, she'd lost sight of her new friend, James. Just as well, she thought. He didn't seem the type to do well dealing with short-tempered gate agents and pushing, shoving, ticked-off passengers.

* * *

Sawyer scanned the terminal. An absolute zoo. Clearly, theirs wasn't the only cancelled flight. Clusters of passengers surrounded harried gate agents. Some passengers were shouting, others looked resigned. What the hell was he going to do? Just get in line and hope for the best? What was the point? That he might get an early morning flight out of here tomorrow? If that was the case, he might as well wait an hour or two and stroll right up to the gate agent. No point in waiting in one of those disorganized lines.

He saw the fat guy in the Bears jersey at the front of one line. The hot halter top woman was leaning against a wall with her cell phone stuck to her ear. She seemed on the verge of tears. He looked around but didn't see Juliet. As soon as the captain had made his announcement, Sawyer had heard her say "Oh, hell," and open her phone to call her sister. They'd filed out of the plane, and into the nuthouse of the terminal, and that was the last he saw of her.

One way or another, he was going to be stuck in this damn airport overnight and not even stuck with enjoyable company. He thought about trying to score a room at one of the airport hotels, but given the crowd here, he wondered if he'd even have any luck with that. Trapped. That's exactly how he felt. If he could just get out of here . . . and then he had an idea. A phone call later, and it was all set. He'd go pick up a rental car and be off. He could drive through the night, take a short break, drive some more. It would probably be a longer trip than just waiting for the next available flight, but at least he wouldn't be stuck here anymore, simply waiting.

He had a spring in his step as he headed down the terminal towards ground transportation. He hadn't gotten too far when he saw Juliet sitting on the floor next to a row of chairs. A crazy idea flitted through his mind, and he took the empty seat right next to where she was sitting, cross-legged, on the floor.

"Hey, you." She said in greeting.

"Hey back. You know, they put these chairs here so you don't have to sit on the floor."

"Hmmmm. Guess it was occupied when I got here."

"Wanna hear my plan?" he asked.

"Shoot."

"I'm renting a car and driving to Miami."

"DRIVING all the way to Miami? That's a stupid plan."

"Well, I'm open to suggestions," he replied. Weird, he thought. Very weird. Hadn't they had this conversation before? Pfffft. Of course not. He soldiered on. "What about you?"

"I'm on the standby list for a flight at 11:30," her tone was flat, defeated.

He glanced around the teeming terminal. How many of these people were standbys? How many more flights were going to be cancelled before the night was out?

"You do realize," he said, "there's no way in hell you're making a flight out of here on standby."

"It's no reason not to try," in the same flat tone.

"Why don't you come with me?" he asked. That at least got her to look at him. "It sure would help to have someone to split the driving with – it's an 18-hour drive. It _is_ stupid to try it by myself. Besides, you're really gonna make me ask Mrs. Word Find and the Karate Kid?" he looked down at her – that line got a genuine smile. Maybe there was a chance . . . "Come on. Just give me 18 hours, that's all I'm asking. Eighteen hours."

She cocked an eyebrow at him. She looked away. And he knew what she was going to say. In the second that passed between his plea and her answer, he knew with absolute certainty how she was going to respond. She wasn't going to say "OK." She wasn't going to say "No, thanks." She wasn't going to say "Let me think about it." No, she was going to say "All right. Eighteen hours."

But it didn't make it any less spooky. "All right. Eighteen hours," she said, and every hair on the back of his neck stood on end. What was going on? How did he know she would say that? He sat dumbfounded.

"James?" Juliet asked, standing to go. "You OK?"

"Yeah," he said, "Just a really weird déjà vu."

"That seems to be going around," she said. She stood up, collected her bags, and they set off together down the terminal.


	3. Road Trip!

**Thanks for everyone's really very kind words. It is much appreciated! Teh-sara, you must have read my mind!**

Well, it was official. This was the dumbest thing she had ever done. Not the dumbest since her divorce. Not the dumbest since she turned 30. Not the dumbest since she finished school. The dumbest – ever. Getting in a car for a road trip with a stranger? One who looked somewhat disreputable? On the "Dumb Things Juliet's Done" List, the top spot had been held for 20 years. That would be the time when, at 14, she helped her best friend, Erin, hot wire Erin's dad's Porsche and take it for a joy ride.

Taking Erin's dad's car? That was stupid – but not "probably going to end up murdered in a ditch" stupid. Yeah, her mom had grounded her for the summer, but even that wasn't horrible. Weekends at her dad's house meant she was ungrounded ("As long as you don't tell your mom."). She always figured he was kind of proud of her for the escapade. Fixing up old cars was his passion, and he'd shown her more than a thing or two.

But this? This took the cake. James was handsome, but not exactly clean cut. And he seemed nice enough, but isn't that what the ladies all said about Ted Bundy, too?

They hadn't even left the outskirts of Cincinnati. There was still time to apologize, tell him she'd made a mistake, and ask him to take her back to the airport.

But then he started talking about Harry Potter. And telling her to hurry up and finish _Half Blood Prince_. Then they could talk about it. "I can't say anything now . . . I'd be scared to death of giving away parts you haven't read yet." And: "Shoot, if Minerva McGonagall were 40 years younger . . . and, well, real??? Oh yeah. I'd hit that. You know she acts all tough, but you know there's some hot lovin' in there, too." How dangerous could a guy with a crush on Professor McGonagall be? Besides, it's not like he forced her into the car, or convinced her to drink spiked OJ or something. Spiked OJ? What did spiked orange juice have to do with anything? (Like she would ever fall for something like that.)

And so she didn't tell him to turn around, and they got on the Interstate, and were on their way south. She'd lied to Rachel when she gave an update. She said the first flight available was late tomorrow morning – she'd be home by early afternoon. And she would be -- if they drove straight through – and James wasn't a serial killer who lured women off cancelled flights and convinced them to go on ridiculous road trips.

She was now very, very thankful for the kickboxing and self defense classes she'd taken up in the past few years. She could handle him, she was sure. "That is, if you don't go to sleep," her rational self piped in. Because, see, if he was an evil genius serial killer, he'd just wait until she fell asleep, pull off the side of the road, and . . . OK, maybe she just wouldn't sleep. She'd had plenty of experience with all-nighters. College, med school, residency, writing her dissertation. Oh yeah, if she needed to, she could stay up all night.

At first, it wasn't at all difficult to keep her eyes open. James had read many of her favorite books, and that was fun to talk about. He asked about her job, and she gave him the layman's version of some of her newest research. He asked perceptive and insightful questions – he was clearly very intelligent. But, when she asked about what he did, he said he was "between jobs," and quickly changed the subject. She decided not to push.

They didn't so much run out of things to talk about as the conversation just sort of petered out into a companionable silence. And that's when her eyelids began to get heavy. She tried to fight it, but was drifting into and out of sleep. In the end, she stopped fighting it, and fell asleep to crazy dreams of spiked orange juice and submarine rides and chemical burns and a funny little man who cooked her a ham dinner.

"Juliet. . . Juliet." Someone was gently shaking her shoulder. It was James, and they were parked under the bright lights of an all-night truck stop. She had to squint as her eyes adjusted to the light. "I was hoping to do the gallant thing, and drive till dawn," said James. "But I can't keep my eyes open any more. You'll have to take a shift. Sorry."

"No problem," she said. That, after all, was the whole point of her coming on this trip, wasn't it?

They filled up on gas and made bathroom breaks. James headed back to the car while she bought a coffee. By the time she returned, he'd already fully reclined the passenger seat and had his eyes closed.

"Asleep already?" she asked. "Aren't you worried I might pull over on the side of the road and kill you in your sleep?"

"Why do you think I was trying to drive till dawn?" His eyes were still closed, but he was grinning, and "Phew," Juliet thought, "Wow, is he good looking when he smiles."

* * *

Her little joke about killing him in his sleep put his mind at ease. He knew at least that she'd been running those scenarios through her head. It was pretty stupid of her to get in the car with him. What if he was dangerous? Some kind of criminal? OK, all right, he WAS some kind of criminal. But not the kind who lured women off cancelled flights only to kill them on the side of the road somewhere. But still, how naïve was she to get in the car with him? At least she wasn't so naïve as to not be thinking about more grisly possibilities and he felt oddly proud of her for that.

From the start of the trip, he'd worked extra hard to come off as harmless. God, he'd even gone off on a tangent about how he'd bang Professor McGonagall if she were younger. Not that that wasn't entirely true. He thought of movies and TV shows where the characters would have a flashback or travel through time and the imperious older lady would now be played by a younger, hotter actress. Oh yeah, he'd love to melt that ice in Minerva McGonagall's veins. . . and now, fully reclined in the passenger seat, he dozed. And in his dreams, he _was _time traveling. No Professor McGonagall, but Juliet was there, and she had a machete. He had a gun and there was a dorky guy in a tie and a hot young broad with a gun . . . and then there was a polar bear, and a burning raft, and sitting around a campfire playing drinking games with a cute chick . . .

A merry beeping woke him, and for a moment he was confused. He was in a car and there was a woman driving . . . she was smiling at him and it was really quite dazzling. "Sorry," she said. "We've just crossed the Florida State Line, and I couldn't resist honking the horn." Now he remembered. The canceled flight. The woman was on the plane with him, and even though she was some kind of fancy pants doctor (and a knockout to boot), she'd for some inexplicable reason joined him on this crazy trek through the Southeastern US.

"How long have I been out?"

"About 5 hours. I really need a pit stop," she said pulling off the Interstate and into the Florida Welcome Center. She parked, and was out of the car, hightailing it to the bathroom before he'd even managed to come fully awake. He unfolded himself from the car, stretched and headed off to the men's room.

Exiting the men's room, he didn't at first see Juliet at the car, but then spotted her by the vending machines. She spotted him too, and with an underhanded heave, tossed a water bottle across a little grassy patch and over to him on the sidewalk. He caught it, but was inexplicably grumpy about it. Why the hell'd she have to go and throw it at him? Couldn't she just hand it to him once they got in the car, you know, like a normal person would? He had a strange urge to twist off the cap and dump it out right there on the sidewalk. That'd show her!

"Show her what?" asked the side of his brain that clearly wasn't grumpy and half awake. She was just being playful, and here he was feeling all pissed off like she had him on a chain gang or something. She was smiling at him again, and not for the first time this trip, he was taken off guard by her looks. And then she cocked her head and her smile turned into more of a smirk, a questioning look.

"Everything OK?" she asked.

"Yeah, just not quite awake yet," he answered.

She volunteered to keep driving, but he said he was fine, and he slipped behind the wheel. Nearly seven hours left, but at least they had made it through the night.

He figured these last seven hours would be the longest. Surely they'd run out of things to say, and they were both tired and grumpy from the long hours in the car. But that wasn't the case. As the miles passed, he found himself dreading the end of the trip. Then they'd say goodbye and that would be that. He'd be off to Immokalee, and then back to LA, back to lying and cheating. She'd be at the hospital with her family and after that living it up with her fancy doctor friends, doing whatever it was they did – play golf, maybe?

She'd called her sister as soon as she felt it was a reasonable hour for an update on their dad. He was stable but not out of the woods. They'd know more after some tests and after a meeting with the cardiologist late that morning. Her family was anxious for her, the family doctor, to get there.

"I'm not really sure what good I'll be," she had told him after she got off the phone with her sister. "It's not like my dad's trying to get pregnant or something." They stopped at a Cracker Barrel for breakfast, and he'd gotten a chuckle out of her incompetence playing the peg games on the table.

She finished her book while he was driving, so that when she took the wheel they were able to discuss it in depth. By then they were down to the last 3 hours of the trip and for him, the time seemed to fly. He felt so comfortable with her, and there was so much he wanted to tell her, but couldn't. He couldn't really tell her that he had a prison record, and a daughter he'd never seen, and was going to be back in LA to work on a new "mark" Hibbs had picked out for him. He wanted to be able to say all that, but at the same time didn't want her to think badly of him.

So, when they pulled up to the hospital visitors' parking garage in downtown Miami, he felt oddly sad and, even more odd for him, awkward. She gathered her bags, and they stood facing each other. A goodbye handshake would somehow seem impersonal. On the other hand, twenty-four hours ago, he'd never laid eyes on this woman, so a hug might seem too forward. So, he just kind of stood there and held out his hand and lamely said, "Well, I guess this is the end of the road." And she took his hand and leaning in, kissed him on the cheek.

"Goodbye, James. Thanks for the ride. It was nice knowing you." A cute, almost flirtatious wave, and she was off towards the hospital entrance. He knew she was anxious to see her dad.

"Wait. . ." he called after her. "Let me give you my number . .. you gotta let me know how things go with your dad. I mean, if you want." And, so he scrawled his number on the back of a gas receipt and handed it over to her.

"Sure thing," she said, and she was off. Truth be told, he had hoped she would reciprocate and give him her number as well. But she didn't, and that was that. The ball's in her court, now, he thought. Probably for the best. Someone like her wouldn't want a reprobate like him calling her up in the middle of some fancy seminar or doctor's cocktail party or something.

He got in the car and drove away.

**I am hoping I can post another update or two soon. The bad news is that on Friday I have to fly out to Seattle and help my brother and his wife move away from their lovely little town outside Seattle . . . and then drive with them all the way back to North Carolina. I guess it's why I have road trips on the brain. Plenty of time for writing, but maybe no time for uploading/updating. So, if I don't get anything up by Thursday, it will be a long wait. But maybe when I get back, I'll be able to get a bunch up at once. We'll see!**


	4. Family

**All right, this is kind of transitional and I wrote it in a bit of a hurry, but I did want to get something up before I went on my trip, so here goes. They are apart pretty much the whole time, so hope it's not too boring. And I know nothing about heart attacks, heart surgery, etc. (thank goodness!) so anything about Juliet's dad is probably completely inaccurate, but oh well . ..**

"Sure thing," she had said, stuffing the number in the back pocket of her jeans. A part of her wanted to say something more. To thank him for delivering her safely to her family. To say she'd give him a buzz the next time she needed to spend close to 20 hours straight in the car. "Have a good time at your uncle's funeral," was horribly inappropriate. So she left it at "sure thing," and headed in the direction of the elevator.

Conveniently, this was her hospital, so she stopped briefly in her office to leave her bags before heading to the cardiology unit. Rachel spotted her as soon as she stepped onto the floor. "God, Juliet, it's great to see you. How was your flight?"

"Fine," she smoothly lied. "How's he doing?"

"They ran some tests this morning, and we should have the results soon. Nancy's in with him now. He'll be thrilled to see you. I'm on my way to get Julian from preschool, but we'll be back shortly. Dad's in the first room on the left. Sorry to run."

"No problem," said Juliet, and she headed towards her dad's room. First she peered in the window on the door. Lying on his hospital bed, with tubes in his nose, and IVs attached to his arms, dad looked gray and washed out, but remarkably peaceful. Nancy, her step mom, was sitting on a chair next to the bed, holding his hand and speaking soothingly to him. Not for the first time, Juliet felt comforted that dad had Nancy in his life.

Her parents' relationship had always been volatile. They'd pick fights, spend an evening not speaking to each other, silently glaring at each other from across the room. Then the next morning, things would inevitably be cheerier, and mom and dad would shamelessly flirt over the breakfast table. Equally inevitably, however, something would spark them off again, and the fight, uncomfortable silence, make-up cycle would repeat. Even for a few years after their divorce, from time to time, dad would come back around, lifting Rachel and Juliet's hopes for a final reconciliation. Sometimes those hopes would be lifted for as long as a few weeks before the next big blow-up sent dad storming off.

As a wise 13-year-old, Rachel seemed to know a lot about adult relationships. Most of it she'd picked up from watching _The Love Boat_. So after being disappointed to see their dad leave "this time for good!" yet again, Rachel seriously informed her 10-year-old little sister, "It's because of sex. People who fight a lot have really good sex." Juliet was pretty sure what "sex" meant, but didn't want to seem dumb in front of Rachel. She knew for a fact that it had to do with tongue-kissing. And being naked. Beyond that, she wasn't sure. She definitely needed to watch less _Little House on the Prairie_ and more _Love Boat_, she knew that for certain.

Even once she grew older, and learned that sex involved a LOT more than tongue-kissing, she never doubted Rachel's "People who fight a lot have really good sex" pronouncement. In fact, it wasn't until she spent four years married to Edmund Burke did she come to the conclusion that Rachel was totally wrong. Because she and Edmund fought all the time. And the sex? Not great. Not at all.

She should have figured this out a lot sooner. She should have figured it out when her dad started seeing Nancy. Dad was just happier when she was around. He smiled more and looked relaxed, and even whistled some when he was working in the garage on his cars. Dad and Nancy never fought. They disagreed sometimes, but never raised their voices to each other. Juliet remembered Rachel's fighting = sex equation and figured Nancy and Dad must never have sex. At the time, it was a comforting thought, because . . . ewwwwww. He was their dad, and who wants to think about that?

Now, though, twenty years later, she peered in at them through the glass in the hospital door, and wondered how she could have always been so misguided. They were smiling at each other, and Nancy was stroking Dad's forehead. She thought back to her teens and remembered Nancy and Dad always touching – holding hands on the couch, Dad giving Nancy a swat on the butt as she walked by – they still did that. Juliet smiled and made a mental note to remind Rachel that her _Love Boat_ romance theories had really messed with her young head.

She stuck her head in, and Nancy and Dad both greeted her with big smiles. "Hey, there, Half Pint," Dad said weakly. "Hey, Pa," responded Juliet. See all that _Little House on the Prairie_ paid off.

"The cardiologist will be in any minute," said Nancy. "Maybe you can talk to him?"

"Sure," said Juliet. Lot of good that will do, she thought. But, she was wearing her hospital security badge, with her name and picture, and "MD, PhD" in big letters. She might not know any more about cardiology than she did relativistic physics, but she could play the doctor game. She could ask intelligent questions, and she knew that the doc would probably go into more detail, stay and answer more questions, give more information, if out of nothing more than professional courtesy.

When he stopped by, they sent her out to talk to him first. Dad would go in tomorrow afternoon for open-heart surgery. They hoped they could clean everything up with a triple bypass. Unfortunately, they weren't going to be able to tell how much of his heart was damaged until they actually got in and saw. There was the possibility that the heart would be irreparably damaged, and the triple bypass would no longer be an option.

"And then what?" asked Juliet.

"Then we put him on the transplant list, but I gotta tell ya, at his age . . . it would be an incredibly risky thing to do. I think we just cross that bridge when we come to it."

"Which could be tomorrow."

"Yeah. All right, let me go in and tell them what to expect with tomorrow's surgery – first things first. Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

Later that evening, Nancy sat with Dad watching _Everyone Loves Raymond_ reruns. Rachel had brought Julian in for a quick visit, but they were on their way home. Nancy and Dad were worried about what tomorrow's surgery might show, but seemed in remarkable spirits. Juliet couldn't sit still. She was worried, and agitated, and nervous. The last thing she wanted to do was to worry Nancy or Dad or Rachel with her anxieties.

She thought about stepping down to her floor and seeing who was working tonight. If things were slow on the labor and delivery floor, she could sit at the nurses' station and talk to whoever was there. But, then again, if she showed up this time of night, she was bound to be stuck helping out the residents or getting pulled into some sort of assignment she'd rather avoid.

"I need to get a coffee. Anybody need anything?" she asked, standing up abruptly.

"No thanks, sweetheart," said Dad. Nancy shook her head.

So, she left their room to pace in the hall, and jamming her hand in her back pockets, remembered James's number. What the hell? She thought. He was easy to talk to, and he didn't have any emotional investment in any of this. He'd be perfect to unload on.

She punched his number into her cell, and the call went immediately to voicemail. "Figures," she thought. Well, she'd leave him a message. "You have reached the voicemail of . . ." said the prerecorded woman's voice. . . "Sawyer. . ." a gruff male voice. . . back to the prerecorded woman: "Please leave a message." Juliet hung up. Damn, wrong number. She checked the number she had dialed against the number James had written on the receipt. They matched -- he had given her a fake number. Oldest trick in the book. So much for a friendly voice to talk to.

##

The trip to Immokalee was only about two hours, but it seemed to last so much longer than that. James stared at the empty passenger seat and shook his head. If only he were a legit guy, he thought. He might have been able to make a go at her. He couldn't believe how much he had enjoyed the long trip from Cincinnati, and he wished there were some sort of excuse to see her again. But then what? He couldn't avoid the "what do you do?" question forever. And then? He didn't have a high school diploma for fuck's sake. And, oh yeah, a criminal record. Yeah, gorgeous doctor ladies would line up outside the door to spend time with him.

"Just make something up," the devil on his shoulder said. "Lie, man – it's what you do." And he considered it. He could be a golf pro who was off the tour while trying to find his swing again. Or a restaurant owner who'd just sold his successful café and was taking time off before starting a new place. . . and he could hang out in Miami for a little bit and just see where things went from there.

"But that's not the point, is it?" the angel on his other shoulder piped in. "You want her to like the real YOU, not some made-up version of you."

"Oh, come ON!" the devil chimed in. "No way in hell someone like her is gonna like someone like you."

"But she did like me!" Sawyer shouted, and realized he had been talking to himself. It was true, though. He may have avoided some hard truths, but he hadn't once lied to Juliet. And, gah! The way she had smiled at him on more than one occasion when they were talking about books or movies or the places in the world they most wanted to visit. He wasn't lying then. That smile – that was for him, not some made-up version of him.

Once he reached Immokalee, though, there was little time for reflection. He hadn't seen most of his family in close to ten years. Even so, they welcomed him with open arms. They were small-town people, and he realized that he had always looked down on that. These were his mom's folks, but his dad's weren't much better – mostly all still living in Jasper, Alabama. But they were good, solid citizens, with children and jobs and legitimate lives. And they seemed happy and content. For once in his life, he envied them.

He was busy trying to learn the names of all his cousins' kids. There had to be at least a dozen kids under the age of 14 running around. In the midst of the commotion, Hibbs kept calling. "Damn," thought Sawyer. "Give it a break, willya?" and turned off his phone. Hibbs could wait.

Sawyer spent most of the evening with his cousin, Ronnie. Ronnie was the Collier County Sheriff. They had a good laugh at some of the hijinks they'd pulled as kids and some wonderment over Ronnie's position in law enforcement. He went with Ronnie to run some last-minute errands for Aunt June, and it seemed everywhere they went, someone tipped their cap to the sheriff. It seemed everyone knew Ronnie, and Sawyer felt a twinge of jealousy. Over a damn small-town sheriff. The world was upside down, indeed.

That night, settled into a local motel, he checked his messages. Hibbs had called five times, trying to get a fix on when to expect him back. There was a sixth missed call, but he didn't recognize the number, and there was no message. Suspicious by nature, he decided to call.

"Hello?" it was a woman's voice. "Damn," he thought. Could one of his marks have gotten this new cell number?

"Yeah, who is this? You called this number today," in the gruffest voice he could muster.

"James? Is that you? This is Juliet. I'm sorry . . . I shouldn't have called."

"No, no! That's OK! I'm sorry. It's been a . . . rough day."

He ended up talking to her for close to 45 minutes. He explained that "Sawyer" was something of a nickname; she talked in detail about what her dad was facing tomorrow; he told her he spent the evening with the sheriff.

He hung up, turned out the light, and dropped into one of the deepest and most restful sleeps he'd had in ages.

The funeral was late the next morning, and he actually regretted having to leave so soon after. His flight back to LA would be leaving Miami that night. He should have stayed an extra day, but it was too late now. He could have stayed a few hours longer, but decided it was better to get back to Miami. He thought if he got back early enough, he could go to the hospital and buy Juliet's dad a balloon or flowers or something. Yeah, he could give her some flowers, maybe she'd smile at him again, and he could live on that memory for a little while at least. Maybe long enough for this strange Dudley Do Right feeling to wear off.

When he reached the outskirts of Miami, he called, and she answered. Her dad was in surgery now, and they were just waiting. No news yet. She didn't have any idea if it would be successful or if the news was going to be bad. He could sense the worry in her voice. She was on the verge of tears.

"Hey, listen. I'm back a little bit early. Would you mind if I stopped by? I'll just be in the lobby or something, you can come down and let me know how it goes. But I know it's going to be fine." God, how desperate did he sound? What sort of loser hangs out at the hospital waiting for news from a woman he barely knows? He thought of quickly rescinding his offer.

"Actually, that would be great," he heard her say. "At least it would give me an excuse to step out for a bit."

He reached the hospital, parked, and waited in the lobby. He had his book, but couldn't concentrate. Every time the elevator doors opened, he looked to see if it was her. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, but he doubted he had been there more than half an hour, when the elevator doors opened and it was her.

She looked completely flushed. Exhausted, almost. He stood up. He really couldn't tell if things had gone well or gone horribly wrong.

"What happened?" he asked.

"It's fine. He had the bypass, and everything's just fine!"

"He's okay?"

"We're all okay!" she said, and broke into a huge grin. He hadn't even stopped to buy the balloons, but this smile was totally worth it. Yeah, he could live on this smile for a long time. He smiled back.

They just sort of stood there grinning like idiots for awhile, and it happened again. The déjà vu. Like drinking the rum on the plane, or convincing her to go on the trip, or when she threw the water bottle at him. Now they were just standing here nodding and grinning and happy over some piece of medical news and it was all so weird.

She was the first to break the spell. "He'll be in recovery for the next six hours, but it looks like he really dodged a bullet."

He didn't want to say goodbye, and he had four hours to kill. It sounded like she had a bit of time on her hands as well . . .

"You wanna grab a bite to eat?"

"James, it's three in the afternoon. Old folks in Miami eat early, but not THIS early."

"Coffee, then?"

She stared at him without changing her expression. She had this habit of not answering right away. Of stretching silences almost to the point of discomfort. He wasn't sure if she did it to formulate her response, or if she was attempting to get him to keep talking, to give too much away, to fill the silence. He had figured this out on their car ride. Well, he had sort of figured it out. All he knew now was that he was going to make her be the one to fill the silence

And she did: "You know what I could really use? A ride to my apartment. It's not 15 minutes from here. Would you mind?"

"Does a bear shit in the woods?" he thought. A ride to her apartment? And four hours to kill? He would try to act nonchalant.

"Sure. Let's go."

**He's going back to her apartment (bom chicka bow wow)! You can guess what comes next. Too bad that's probably it for at least a week as I spend the next week on my Seattle-North Carolina road trip. Wheeee! **


	5. Juliet's Apartment

**I apologize for the delay! And Happy Belated 4th for Americans! I have just returned from my own road trip, and got a whole new appreciation for the good, old USA. We started at my brother's home in Vashon Island, WA (an island in Puget Sound outside of Seattle), and traveled through Washington, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, Utah, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Illinois, Kentucky, Tennessee, and North Carolina! Phew! We saw every license plate in the US except for 5 states. Now my brother and sister-in-law are having to readjust to the humidity of the Southeast. They are going to miss Washington! Then we had a hosueful to celebrate the 4th.** **So, for those following the story, thank you for your patience. Off we go . . .**

So. Here they were. She needed to gather a few stacks of papers and her laptop. Rachel had picked her up this morning, thinking they'd just stay at the hospital all day and drive home together. With all this waiting time, however, Juliet thought it would be a good idea to work on a research article she was writing. So, she'd asked James to give her a ride to her apartment – so he could gather her writing materials.

Right. Sure, _that _was why she'd asked him for a ride and then asked him to come on up, instead of letting him wait in the car. Uh huh. Just going to get her stuff and be back to the hospital. Yep. Who the hell was she kidding? She had asked him up here for a lot more than that.

She'd been so busy lately, and it never occurred to her how lonely she was. Having family close helped. She kept Julian on Wednesday afternoons and spent many Saturday mornings with her dad and Nancy. However, once she'd sworn off seeing fellow doctors or co-workers, her dating life dried right up. That was fine, of course, and throwing herself into her career had its advantages. But waiting out Dad's surgery today, she'd realized she would give just about anything to collapse into someone's arms and block out the whole world. To pretend for just a little while that nothing existed beyond pleasure and comfort.

And then James had called her and said he'd come to the hospital. She thought, of course, of his strong hands and arms, and those amazing dimples. But, more than that, she thought of how comfortable he was. How easily he made her laugh. How was it possible? Forty eight hours ago she'd never laid eyes on the man, but everything about him was comfortable. Oddly, he felt like "home" to her.

So, she'd invited him to her apartment. Now that they were here, though, she was getting cold feet. She usually wasn't so forward – she'd never had to be, really. Not that she'd been with lots and lots of men, but the handful she had been with always made the first move. Oh sure, she could turn on the baby blues and play the right flirty games if need be. She'd only slept with two men since her divorce four years ago. On those men, she'd used what she and Rachel now called her "magic third date top." It was low-cut and tight-fitting and hadn't required her to do much more than at some point in the evening, lean over _just so_, while her date was still sitting down. THAT got their attention, and then she basically didn't have to make another move. Her decision early this morning to wear a comfy and baggy scrub top and her oldest pair of jeans now dismayed her. Was she going to have to do something overt? Signal her interest? Hold up a big sign that read "I'M DESPERATE"?

And, dammit, where the HELL was the power cord to her laptop? Under her couch? Yep, there it was.

When she stood back up, James was standing facing the floor-to-ceiling bookcase along one wall of her living room. Well, he was a big boy. He could make the first move if he wanted. Besides, wasn't it entirely possible that her exhaustion and 48+ hours of constant worry for her dad were clouding her judgment just a little? How else to explain the weird déjà vu she kept feeling around him?

On the drive here, they'd missed every light, sailing straight through on a wave of greens. She knew from experience that this cut travel time to and from the hospital in half. "Ha!" she exclaimed. "What are the odds we'd get all greens?" Of course, the very next (and last) light was red. "You just had to say something," James had said in mock exasperation. For about the hundredth time since they'd' sat next to each other on their ultimately cancelled flight, she couldn't shake the eerie feeling that they'd been through this before.

"Thought you said you'd never read _A Tale of Two Cities_," James, still standing at the bookcase, snapped her out of her reverie.

She approached and stood shoulder to shoulder with him, facing the bookcase.

"I haven't. I just keep the 'great' books out here to make me look smart."

James chuckled. His eyes were still scanning the titles on her shelves, but he reached over and took her right hand in his left. It was a friendly gesture, and maybe he meant to offer no more than a companionable offer of support. But she'd said she'd wait for him to make the first move. And, hell, it was enough of a first move for her. She turned so that she was no longer staring straight at her books but was instead angled ever so slightly in his direction.

* * *

When she'd let him into her apartment, it was just as he imagined it would be – bright and clean with natural light streaming through the windows. The table in the small entrance foyer was loaded with family photos, and a whole wall of her living room was devoted to a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. The place even smelled nice. It was a little bit like paradise. What must it be like to live in such a bright, neat, and cozy little home?

Juliet was busy flitting about gathering the work materials she said she needed to take back to the hospital. If that's all she really wanted to do, though, couldn't she have told him to wait in the car? He held out hope that there was more to this visit than her search for her laptop power cord.

He wouldn't push it, though. Her dad was sick. Shit, she'd spent most of the past two days worrying he might die. No, he wasn't going to take advantage. _She'd_ invited him up here. If there was more to it, _she_ could make the first move. But, hell, now she was leaning over looking for her power cord under her couch. He suppressed a whistle. Damn, no one had a right to look that good is hospital scrubs and blue jeans.

He turned around and busied himself skimming the titles on her bookshelves. He'd read a lot of them, but there were loads he hadn't. He pictured himself spending a few days on that comfy couch over there, curled up with a good book and a few nights down the hall, curled up with . . .

"Snap out of it, shithead," he thought to himself "Don't forget who you are, scumbag." He could put on airs and pretend all he wanted that he was some sort of "in between jobs" businessman, but she'd figure it out soon enough. "You ain't never gonna be living the legit life in a nice place like this."

Seeing a thick book on the shelf, he commented, "Thought you said you'd never read _A Tale of Two Cities._" Ironic that _he_ had perhaps caught _her _in a lie. She came to stand beside him.

"I haven't. I just keep the 'great' books out here to make me look smart."

He didn't know how to respond to that. Amazed that someone as obviously brilliant as she was would feel the need to make people think she was smart? How did anyone who met her not get that right off the bat? Maybe he could say that he understood – just seconds ago he was thinking about putting on airs and making people think you were smarter, better than you really were. She was probably just making a joke, but it was endearing and soothing and comforting. Like she could read his mind.

He chuckled at the joke, but that didn't express how much he wanted to thank her for somehow, some way "getting" him. So, he reached over, held her hand and squeezed it. He really didn't mean more than "I get you." But she turned toward him, barely, almost imperceptibly. "There," he thought. "That's it. She's made the first move."

He turned her so they were now facing each other directly. Still holding her right hand in his left, he pushed her against the bookcase. He held her hand up near her face and placed his free hand along her cheek.

If possible, her eyes were even bigger and bluer than he'd previously noticed. Although she didn't look offended, she wasn't smiling, either. Her face was expressionless, and he wondered if this was something akin to the odd, lengthy pauses he'd noticed in her speech pattern. This time, though, he wasn't planning on waiting on her to fill the silence, so he leaned in to kiss her. In the instance before their lips touched, he saw the corners of her eyes crinkle into a genuine, heartfelt smile.

**Stay tuned . . . No upcoming 3000+ mile trips for me, so the next update should come a lot sooner.**


	6. Third Time's a Charm

**Sorry for leaving off where I left off before . . . I didn't mean to be so 'cruel,' but I guess now we can just get right to it.**

Less than 10 minutes later, they were lying, spent, on her bed. Jesus Fucking Christ! Ten minutes??? Well that was certainly no way to impress a lady. Good thing he wasn't planning on asking her for a couple thousand dollars. She'd laugh at him. Ten minutes? He'd wanted to slow down. Had tried to. But from the second their lips met, everything had sped up and become frantic, desperate.

His inner voice had pleaded with him to slow down, to get a grip, but every time he got a handle on things, she'd touch him just so, pushing all the right buttons and making it impossible for him to slow down. Her mouth tasted so good, almost familiar, and he would have been content to stand against the bookcase and kiss her for a long while. But she had started stroking the inside of his left elbow. Of course, there was no way for her to know or guess how very sensitive that spot was – his secret erogenous zone. Most women he'd been with never figured it out, and none as quickly as this. If she didn't stop touching him there, this would all be over before they even fully undressed. So, he grabbed both her hands and raised them over her head, pulling off her shirt.

What he wanted to do now was kiss the small birth mark on the underside of her left breast. The thought was odd, seeing as how she was still wearing a bra, and there was no way to tell if she had such a mark. The stranger thought, though, was how much that mark always turned him on. It was in such an intimate spot, and it gave him a sense of pride. Like she had let him in on a personal secret that none of these other yahoos had the first clue about. That actually slowed him down for a second. "What other yahoos?"

But before that notion had a chance to solidify into a real thought, she started teasing his earlobe with her tongue, and damn it, did she have some sort of instruction manual on how to drive him wild?

"Where's the bedroom?" he panted, and she led him down the hall. He tried again to slow things down, kissing her again and savoring the comfort and familiarity there. But his hands strayed to the side of her face, then shoulders, and were now undoing her bra straps. And really, that was that. He just gave up trying to slow things down. Because there was the birthmark he was looking for. God, he'd missed it so much – another stray thought that never had a chance to fully materialize, because she had unbuckled his belt and had her hands down his pants . . . and was moaning his name. "James," twice in succession. When was the last time a woman had called him by his real name? Ever?

And now here they were, fully undressed, not 10 minutes since he'd asked the innocent question about _A Tale of Two Cities_. Her check was pressed to his shoulder, and her hair, soft and clean smelling was pressed to his nose. He briefly considered the odd, misplaced thoughts his brain had been firing off minutes before. Of course, he'd also just assumed that she had a tattoo or something on her lower back, and that wasn't there. Of course not – she seemed somehow too proper for a tramp stamp. He was really just searching for an excuse for his poor performance. She started giggling. Of course. What did he expect? Maybe in high school she'd been with a guy who'd taken care of business so quickly, but weren't grown men supposed to have a little more self control?

"That was amazing. Thank you," she said, and he laughed.

"I thought you were gonna say, 'that was quick'."

"Well, that too, I guess." (at least she was honest!) She lifted up onto an elbow to smile directly at him. How he had gone his whole life without that smile he had no idea. So, he said "Hey, if you give me about half an hour, maybe we can try it a little slower."

She giggled again, nuzzled her faced into his neck and said "Deal!"

* * *

Half an hour, she thought. The pleasure sure to be waiting at the end of that half hour was absolutely going to be worth the wait, she knew. But it wouldn't have mattered. More important to her was the chance to lie here with her face buried in his neck for a little bit longer. He would leave for LA tonight, and there'd be no reason to ever see him again. So, she'd soak up this time while she had it. Her head fit perfectly on his shoulder, and her left arm stretched across his chest. She just fit, and at the same time she felt like crying. She had never felt so comfortable with a man, and he'd be gone and out of her life before sunset tonight.

She could tell he felt a little chagrined at how fast the sex had gone, but, truth be told, the desperate, frantic clinginess of it all had been thrilling to her. There was nothing tame about this entire relationship, if you could even call the brief time they'd shared together a "relationship." Drinking with him on the plane, getting into the car with him, inviting him back to her place, and now this wild, desperate sex? Well, it was just amazingly, excitingly adventuresome. It was high time she stepped out of her comfort zone.

Except that was the thing. On the surface this was wild and adventurous, but underneath it was the most comfortable she'd ever been. There was no point analyzing it, though. She'd just revel in the bit of time they had left. She realized with slight embarrassment that he'd been so kind and concerned about her dad, but she'd not yet asked about his uncle's funeral. So, she did.

He talked for a long time about his cousins, their kids, his aunts and uncles. "I never had a lot of time for family, I guess. It was kinda the first time I regretted that." As he talked, she felt the pleasant, deep rumble of his chest, and the steady beat of his heart. He talked about his cousin the sheriff, his aunt who owned a beauty parlor, and his cousin's wife who played organ at the Baptist church.

"And what is it that you do, James?" she asked. She hadn't pressed when on their road trip he avoided the question. But, hell, they were lying naked in each others' arms. Asking him what he did for a living surely wasn't out of bounds.

He paused, and she could actually feel his heart beat a little bit faster. "What do I do?" he asked as she nodded. "Well. . ." he was stalling, she could tell, and she thought briefly of changing the subject, but instead lifted back onto her elbow, and stared at him, expressionless.

He broke into a wide grin and flipped her over onto her back. "How 'bout if right now, I do you?"

Little alarm bells rang in the back of her head. What was he hiding? But he was kissing her now, and the alarm bells were being drowned out by happier sounds. Besides, if the whole point of this afternoon was wild abandon, shouldn't she just throw caution totally to the wind?

He stopped kissing her long enough to look directly in her eyes and smile. Good God, how could she resist that? So she pulled his head back down and kissed him.

This time, things were slower. He spent a long time kissing her neck and shoulders before turning her over to kiss all the way down to the small of her back. The stubble on his chin scratched and tickled and was amazingly enticing. He turned her onto her back to kiss her stomach and then breasts. In all, they must have spent close to an hour exploring each others' bodies. He was new and exciting and comfortable and familiar all at once, and the feeling was intoxicating. When he finally entered her, he looked deeply into her eyes and didn't break eye contact. She stared directly back at him and felt as though she'd spent years staring at those haunted, but lovely eyes.

* * *

The clock on her bedside table was mocking him. At the most, he had 45 minutes before he needed to take her back to the hospital and make his flight on time. He'd been keeping a wary eye on the clock most of the afternoon, and felt cheated by how fast time was slipping away. He'd met this amazing, incredible woman, and time was mocking him. Stupid time.

Juliet had dozed off, and to see her sleeping so peacefully touched him to his core. On their trip, she'd briefly mentioned an ex-husband. What kind of moron, Sawyer wondered, would willingly give this up? Then again, what kind of asshole would change the subject anytime she asked innocent, legitimate questions about what he did for a living? He sighed deeply, and the heave of his chest woke her. "Mmmmmmm," she yawned and stretched, and hugged him tighter to her. And for some reason he could in no way explain, he just started talking.

"I'm a con man."

Her eyes narrowed in question.

"You asked what I do. I'm a con man. My partner fixes me up with women with money to spare, and then I make them fall for me, and I take their money." There, he said it.

She was sitting up now, clutching the sheet to her chest. Concern was written all over her face, but all she said was "Very funny."

"I ain't kidding, Juliet," he said. "If you don't believe me, ask Google. I spent about a year in jail. You can look it up."

Now she was staring at him, and he'd never seen a face so expressionless. She didn't blink or move an eyebrow, but just looked right at him with those blue eyes that now looked unfathomably, chillingly cold.

"Please say something," he said.

"You're very good at what you do," she said, but even as her mouth moved to speak, the rest of her face remained unnervingly still.

He _was_ good at it, but that wasn't a compliment, was it? It was an insult. He was good at something dishonest, mean-spirited, and criminal. How she knew he was good at it was beyond him, but she seemed to know him in ways he couldn't quite wrap his head around.

She was out of bed now and said, "I mean, I fell for it hook, line, and sinker."

Damn, she thought her had been conning her. "No. You got it all wrong. This wasn't . . .This wasn't . . . I didn't plan this. This ain't a con. You gotta believe that."

"Uh huh," she replied. Something imperceptible had changed in her expression. What had moments before been blank and inscrutable was now a blazing fury. "I'm sure that's what you always say. And lonely, desperate women – women like me – are sooooo easy to charm. I'd be disgusted with you if I wasn't more disgusted with myself."

Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thought. Why the hell had he said anything? He just wanted to be honest with her. He didn't think she'd be overjoyed to hear that he was just a lowlife criminal, but it'd never occurred to him that she'd think he was conning _her_. But of course she would. It was obvious now – too late.

"Please. I promise. I ain't gonna ask you for any money. I promise. I don't know what else to say."

"James . . ." she practically spat the name.

That's it! He thought. "My name," he interrupted her. "I told you my real name. It's been I don't know how long since I told a woman my real name. You gotta believe me."

"Really." It wasn't a question. More like an "I'm not inclined to believe anything you say" statement.

"Everyone thinks my name is Sawyer."

"The name on your voicemail."

"Yeah," he was out of bed, fishing in the pocket of his jeans. He pulled out his wallet and then his ID. "See, look. James is my real name. You gotta believe me." _You gotta believe me._ How many times was he going to have to say those four words?

Her face was softening a little bit. The fury was gone, replaced by the blank face. It was all so very subtle, but he could tell it was progress. He was actually very proud of himself for being able to read this inscrutable face so easily. How'd he manage that?

"Sawyer? Like Tom Sawyer?

OK, that was _definitely_ progress. Could she believe him? Even just a little bit? "Yeah. Exactly like that," he said.

"You gonna ask me to whitewash a fence?" she asked.

It was a joke, and his heart leapt. Things were going to be OK. Maybe not perfect, but he'd settle for OK. "No. I ain't gonna ask you for nothin'. I promise."

"Why Sawyer?"

He'd had enough over-sharing for a lifetime, and didn't care to push his luck farther than he already had. Then again, he was tired of lying, of avoiding the truth, of changing the subject.

"Now that's a long, sad story," he said. "And I'd be more than happy to share it with you. We got about 30 minutes. You wanna hear it? We got time. Or, if you wanna kick me outta your house, I'd understand. Or, we can say goodbye properly – if you know what I mean. I promise you, I ain't ever gonna ask you for nothin' more than that – a proper goodbye."

Her face was still expressionless, but there was something going on in her eyes. She was debating her options, he knew. "You ain't never gonna ask me for nothin' more?" she asked, and her mocking tone was about all the encouragement he needed.

"I promise," he answered.

"Good. Because if you do, I'm not planning on giving you a thing after this." She dropped the sheet she'd been clutching and fell back onto the bed. He tried to remember a time in his life when he'd been as happy as this very moment.

If the first time had been wild and fast, and the second time slow and loving, this time was wild and slow and fast and loving all at once. He never would ask her for another thing, and in half an hour, she'd be out of his life forever. He blocked out those thoughts and concentrated on her. He wanted to memorize the how she tasted and smelled and the exact flare of her hips and the feel of the dip in the back of her neck and those serious, amazing, bright, blue eyes.

He wondered again how he'd gone his whole life without knowing this woman and how he'd go through the rest of his life on just the memories.


	7. A New Life

**This chapter is all Sawyer; I couldn't figure out any really good way to break it up to include both. But, I am really, really close to finishing the next chapter. Maybe even later tonight.**

The flight back to LA was direct, and the plane wasn't even half full. Sawyer was pleased to have a row to himself so he could stretch his legs, but he thought ruefully of the last plane he was on. Could it have only been 48 hours ago that he was warily watching fellow passengers file down the aisle? Now, his return home seemed unbearably long. He was dreading his return to "work." Hibbs was picking him up at LAX, and Sawyer was positive he'd have a job lined up for him already.

Sure enough, Hibbs had finagled an invite to a swanky cocktail hour – a benefit for underprivileged urban youth – or maybe it was rural youth? "Who the fuck cares, right?" Hibbs snorted. "You got a clean suit?" The soiree was tomorrow night.

"Can't a guy get a break?" Sawyer asked.

"Jesus, man. What do you call the last three days?"

So, here he was, less than 24 hours after landing in LA, and already on the job, wearing his monkey suit, clutching a Jack and Coke, and scanning the room. He was on the lookout for one Mrs. Kim Bonham, his new "mark." Her husband was some kind of big-shot agent or talent rep or some such. Mrs. Bonham was to be relieved of $50,000. Once he spotted her, it was easy enough to sidle up to her and start up a little harmless flirtation.

The next day – oh what coincidence! – he just happened to run into Kim at the club's restaurant. He was "more than happy" to accept her invite to join him at lunch. Hibbs had described her as an "icy blonde," and Sawyer thought of the look he'd seen Juliet give their fellow airline passenger or the look she'd given _him _after he'd confessed his true identity. "Hibbs, you don't know icy blonde," he'd been tempted to say.

As far as Kim Bonham went, though, "icy blonde" wasn't a horrible description. She was good looking in a totally put-together kind of way. Not a hair out of place, perfect accessories, tons of jewelry, and elaborately made up. He got the sense that without makeup, she'd look like a completely different person. She spent most days at the club, working out with her trainer or playing tennis. She was in nice shape, and had a pretty decent body, but he got the sense that a good bit of it was fake.

Jesus Christ, but she was boring! He worked hard to fake interest in her new workout plan. Fuck. Is this really what he did? He'd always considered it easy money, but how in the world was this easy? How was it that he could spend close to 20 hours stuck in a car with one woman and never once feel bored and never once have to fake interest, and spend barely 20 minutes with another woman and already think of the BWAH BWAH BWAH BWAH BWAH BWAH voices of Charlie Brown adults?

He mentioned something interesting he'd read in the paper that morning, which she somehow used as an opportunity to gossip about the woman three tables over. Shoot me now, he thought, as she started in on the new hours at the Club's gym. How many endless hours would he have to spend with this woman before he could get out with some money? And surely he'd have to sleep with her, right? Take her away on a few illicit trips? The thought of sleeping with her turned his stomach a little bit (God, would she take off any of that jewelry? How comfortable could that possibly be? And would her makeup rub off onto him? And since when had he been so particular?) Even worse, though, was the thought of having to put up with her inane conversation for any longer than he had to.

He left lunch with a suggestive "hope to see you around sometime." That got her interest, he could tell, but it also filled him with dread. By the time he got home that afternoon he was totally out of sorts. He took a six-pack from the fridge, with every intention of drinking it all. He had no degree, a criminal record, and, hell, he was _good_ at what he did. He was definitely, 100% stuck.

He would have to snap out of this funk, he knew. All told, he'd spent, what? 24 hours with Juliet? Shit, how could one person get under your skin so quickly? It wasn't possible, no way, no how. A few more days, and he'd be over this.

There was a knock at his door.

"Well if it ain't Bob Marley!" he declared. Bob was Sawyer's downstairs neighbor. A dreadlocked white guy with a love of all things Rasta. As luck would have it, his first name really was Bob.

"Hadn't seen you around in awhile, man," said Bob. Bob was an award-winning barista, and as of the past two years, owner of a quite successful coffee shop. Sawyer never ceased to be amazed at his pot-head friend's business acumen. In fact, as they caught up, Bob filled him in on all his latest expansion plans. In addition to business sense, Bob came with pretty good people sense, too. They hadn't been talking for long when he point-blank asked, "What's up with you man? Someone slip you some downers in Florida? 'Cause you're a real bummer tonight."

Sawyer laid most of it out for him. The inane and fake Kim Bonham, the too-brief time he'd spent with his family, this woman he'd met on his trip, his need for a break . . . But Bob cut right to the chase.

"Ah, this is about a chick, huh?"

"Nah, man. It's just all of it. I just need a break from the game, is all."

"Uh huh," Bob clearly didn't believe him.

Nor should he. Sawyer was lying to himself if he thought it had nothing to do with Juliet. Had he gone a 5-minute stretch without thinking about her? He had stopped at the library on the way home to check out books she'd recommended. And he'd listened to the Oldies station in his car, since she'd mentioned that Oldies were her favorite. He'd snapped it off in disgust when the Beach Boys' oh-so-happy and groovy "Good Vibrations" had come on, mocking him and his sour mood. But he was resigned to never seeing her again, so why couldn't he just snap out of it? No way could you spend so little time with someone and have her get so thoroughly under your skin.

He still had her number in his phonel, but no way was he going to call. She'd probably figure he was working her if he bothered. But, hell, maybe he could make himself respectable so that the next time he met a gorgeous, smart, funny woman who also happened to enjoy a good book, he'd have a shot. Ha.

He spent the next week or so very slowly working Kim Bonham. Hibbs wanted him in and out and on to another scheme he was working up. This wasn't supposed to take longer than a few weeks. Sawyer's heart wasn't in it, though, and one day over breakfast he told Hibbs as much.

"Stop being a pussy, and finish the damn job," was Hibbs' not-unexpected reply.

"Nuh uh, boss. Look, somethin' ain't right with me. I need a break. Clear my head."

Hibbs snorted. "You're gonna miss the easy money, man. You'll come crawling back soon."

"Maybe" was the best Sawyer could muster.

Later that evening, he sat on his balcony with Bob. "What the fuck did I just do?"

"This Miami chick's really got you turned around," said Bob.

"Shit man, you got that right."

"So, you got $25,000 to spare?" Bob non-sequitored.

He did; one thing about easy money and low living expenses was a nice little nest egg. "Why?' he asked cautiously.

"You heard my plans for the shop. I've been thinking of getting a loan, but I wouldn't mind adding a minority owner. You can work the morning shift, too. I've been thinking of adding to the staff."

"You shittin' me?" asked Sawyer.

"Nope – you're a fast learner. And as long as you're 'Charming Sawyer' and not 'Asshole Sawyer,' you'll be great."

Sawyer thought on the offer for 2 days before knocking on Bob's door and presenting him with a $25,000 check. "Sorry. Didn't have time to get one of them big Ed McMahon checks."

"No problem, partner." Bob shook his hand.

And so, Sawyer had spent the past month as a rookie barista. Evenings, sitting on his couch with a book and beer, he felt more at ease with himself than he ever had in his adult life. Mornings, though, as he rolled out of bed to open the shop, he questioned his sanity. Once or twice he'd actually thought "screw it," planning to give Hibbs a call. But he'd think of the look on Juliet's face when he'd confessed his sins. If doing this meant never having to see someone look at him like that again, then it was worth it.

For the most part, the job suited him just fine. He'd nicknamed a handful of regular customers. A particular favorite was a big, curly headed dude – "Jumbotron" – who just happened to be an _excellent_ tipper.

Bob treated him like a full partner, and had even deferred to him on a few decisions. A month in, and he had to say that all in all, this had been a good move. One particularly busy morning, he was at the register when a customer laughed, "Imagine finding you here!" He looked up to see Hibbs. "Coffee boy? This is what you've sunk to?"

"Give it a rest, man."

"Actually," said Hibbs, "I been planning to call you. I got a job for you. An easy one."

"Ain't interested, chief," was Sawyer's reply.

"I'll be sitting over there. Come chat when you get a chance."

Hibbs sat in the corner for the entire morning rush. Sawyer kept hoping he'd eventually get bored and wander off. No luck. Things slowed, so Sawyer headed over to Hibbs' table.

"All right, man, what's up?" he asked.

"I need someone I trust to deliver a bag of cash to Boca Raton. Easy, right? There's $5,000 in it for you – and an all-expenses paid trip to Miami. You interested?"

**TBC . . . and very soon, I think.**


	8. A New Life, Part 2

**As promised, a VERY quick update. This one's *almost* all Juliet.**

After saying goodbye to James, Juliet had driven herself back to the hospital. She found Nancy and Rachel sitting in the waiting room just as she'd left them.

"Where've you been all afternoon?" asked Rachel.

"I went back to my apartment and spent the afternoon having sex with a convicted felon."

"Har dee har har. Very funny," her sister replied. Juliet smirked. So much for honesty.

Half an hour later, they were let in to see Dad. A week after that, he was out of the hospital. Juliet stayed with Dad and Nancy a few nights a week, spent busy days catching up with work, and evenings slaving over a grant proposal. It was a busy time, but she walked with a little spring in her step along with her new internal narrative: "To all observers, she's a mild-mannered doctor. A geeky spinster spending evenings helping her parents and writing research grants. Bus in reality, she's an adventurous and seductive temptress who spends afternoons having sex with dangerous men."

OK, yes, that had happened only once in nearly 35 years and yes, when she'd told Rachel, the person who knew her best in the world, Rachel had laughed at the absurd joke. Fine. It was all part of her secret identity.

And, granted, although James technically was a convicted felon (she'd indeed Googled him), nothing about him seemed remotely dangerous to her. She hated to admit to herself that the only reason she'd spent any amount of time with him was because he'd seemed entirely safe and comfortable. That didn't fit the new internal narrative, though, so she left it out.

A month passed in a busy haze of patients, research, and evenings helping her dad. He'd actually recovered to the point that she was no longer spending three nights a week at his house. She'd even caught up on enough work that she volunteered to host a meeting of her book club. She'd had to stay up well past midnight for the last four nights to get the book read on time, though. Now, she was quite exhausted while she was getting her apartment ready for guests. So tired, in fact, that she forgot to set the timer on the oven and ended up burning the muffins she was baking. So tired, in fact, that she didn't think to put on an oven mitt when she pulled the burned muffins out of the oven.

And where the hell did she keep Band Aids and Neosporin? None in the medicine cabinet. "Way to be prepared, Dr. B.," she thought to herself. Now she was rummaging under her bathroom sink for the First Aid kit. It was here, right? Behind the bag of cotton balls, box of tampons, bottle of toilet bowl cleaner, plastic jars of bath salts . . . there it was. Phew.

Bandaging her hand, an unspoken worry passed through her mind, but she couldn't quite grasp it or articulate what it was. She had forgotten something. Maybe? For her book club? No, except for the muffins, everything was ready, right? She'd vacuumed, dusted, set out chairs . . .no, it was probably nothing.

The meeting was going swimmingly, and her guests were busy analyzing and over-analyzing _Seabiscuit_ when she remembered she had forgotten to remember something. What the hell was it? It was a date, right? A deadline or something. Her grant? No, that was definitely due May 1. A birthday? She ran through the family birthdays. Julian was up next, but she had until June. That wasn't it, either. She stifled a yawn and thought to herself, "What you've forgotten this past week is to get a good night's sleep."

"We boring you, Julie?" someone asked.

"Sorry, no. It's just been a long week," she answered.

Even so, the discussion was winding down, and her guests were beginning to leave. As soon as they were gone and she'd straightened up a reasonable amount she headed for the bathroom to get ready for bed. No more late nights. "Loser," she chided herself. "Seriously, wiped out from staying up late for a _book club_? What happened to the adventurous and seductive temptress?"

All the stuff she'd tossed from under her sink was still on the floor. And there it was. If she were a cartoon, a light bulb would have magically appeared over her head. As a matter of fact, if she were living in a cartoon, maybe the tampon box could talk to her. "Hey, stranger. Haven't seen you around in awhile. Think you're too good for us?"

Oh. When had she needed them last? She thought of the last month. All the overnight bags she'd packed for a night at Dad and Nancy's. "Oh sure," the cartoon box mocked. "Yeah, your toothbrush got to go and your deodorant and shampoo and vitamins, but what about us? Nooooooo. We just got left behind."

Juliet shook her head. Talking tampon boxes were bad enough, but what if the toilet bowl cleaner got in on the act? "It's fine. It's totally fine," she told herself, looking directly in the mirror, and blowing a strand of hair from off her face. "It's been a stressful month, and it's not like you're little miss super-regular anyway." And besides, adventurous seductress be damned, it wasn't like they hadn't taken precautions . . .except that third time. "Third time's a charm," her nasty, sarcastic inner voice taunted.

James had asked if she wanted to hear his sad story or "say goodbye properly," and she'd chosen to say goodbye properly. Only, when they got down to saying their proper ("proper" – oh ho ho! laughed inner sarcastic Juliet) goodbye, James apologized. He'd only had two condoms. Yes, an adventurous, seductive temptress probably should probably keep some on hand. But "adventurous, seductive temptress" was a bald-faced lie, wasn't it? "Mild-mannered geeky spinster doctor" was the truth when it came right down to it, and, well, mild-mannered geeky spinster doctors most definitely did NOT keep condoms on hand, damn it.

"It'll be fine," she'd told him. He'd asked if she was sure, and of course she was. "Well, you're the expert," he'd replied.

It should have been fine. She and Edmund had spent nearly two years trying to get pregnant. Oh, the irony! – infertile fertility doctors. Most of the time, she was exceedingly thankful things had never worked out for them. But when Edmund had remarried, and his new wife had a beautiful baby girl a year later, Juliet spent the evening weeping at Rachel's. "I always believed he was the problem., He never would get tested, and I hated him for it. Guess it turns out the problem was me."

"Guess so," Rachel had said with nary an ounce of sympathy.

"Well, thanks for your support."

"You really want to be saddled with that bastard's kids? You dodged a bullet, if you ask me."

Rachel was right, and by the time they'd gone through a bottle of Merlot, Juliet was even able to laugh about it. "If I knew I couldn't get pregnant, I would have made an effort to enjoy college a lot more, damn it!"

So, it couldn't be true NOW. Not now that she was in her mid-30s. Not after _one_ slip up. But snarky, sarcastic inner Juliet just wouldn't give it a rest. "That's not how it works, girlfriend. You should know, aren't you supposed to be some sort of expert?"

Yep. An expert with access to pregnancy tests, one of which she snagged at work the next day. She sat that evening dumbfounded at the positive result. Now what?

Luckily, she was sitting. Her arms and legs felt like Jello, and her heart sank. Weirdly, though, she felt her mouth break into a grin. "Ha ha!" She thought she couldn't, but she could! And, God but James had been good looking. I bet he makes pretty babies. Uh oh, James. The ex con. His number was still in her phone. More than once the past month it had actually crossed her mind to call him. He would've liked _Seabiscuit_. Maybe he'd already read it. She was pleased with her dad's recovery, and had thought of sharing that news with James. She never had, though. What would've been the point?

Now, clearly, calling him would be the right thing to do. But call him for what? So that he could yell at her for saying it would be "fine" when it clearly wasn't? Call him so he could say "Who's this again?" and her heart would be broken to find out he did this sort of thing all the time and had forgotten her completely? No. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him, and would keep her from getting hurt in the process.

Her family – her colleagues. They were another matter. Hell, she was a fertility "expert" (har, har har, no the irony wasn't lost on her). She could just tell her family that she was getting older, read the writing on the wall, and became her own patient. Her colleagues wouldn't buy that story, though. She could come up with something else to tell them. She could make up a fake boyfriend or something. One who would conveniently break up with her before they had a chance to meet him. But, he'd be a great guy, a professional of some sort, safe, reasonable (and horribly boring, she thought) -- not an afternoon fling with a con man. And why did thinking of James that way make her feel guilty? He was exactly what he said he was, and she'd probably spent less than 24 hours in his presence. It _had_ been a fling. Just because she'd spent most of the past month, and, OK, ALL of the past 24 hours thinking about him didn't change the basic math. Twenty-four hours together, that was all.

All right. Tell her family she'd become her own patient. Tell her colleagues about her new fake boyfriend. Great! Then, all she'd have to do was keep her family life and work life 100% separate for . . . oh, the rest of her life. Clearly no good. What was she going to say? "Hey, Dad. I know your heart's a lot better. Let's see if it's strong enough to handle THIS news! See, there was this convicted felon, but he was really nice and good looking . . ." And she pictured Dad clutching his chest, and Nancy saying "What have you done to him?" and Rachel looking at her with her best condescending big sister look and Julian asking "Mommy, what is a condom?"

Well, she didn't have to say anything just yet. She'd figure something out. Before she did or said anything, she had to wrap her own head around it anyway. Besides, her grant proposal was due in two weeks. "Let's get that out of the way and then see what's what," she decided.

Two weeks later, it was late on a Friday afternoon, and she was still at her office. The proposal had been sent to the NIH that afternoon, and she was staying late to wrap up a few things. Having the grant finished was a huge relief, and slowly but surely she was coming to terms with the fact that she was going to be a mom. In fact, she found herself somewhat giddy when she told her patients they were pregnant. On a few occasions she'd wanted to yell out "and I am too!!", but in addition to being unprofessional, she probably shouldn't tell random patients before she told her own family.

And she was still scared to do that. Whenever she started getting too excited or happy, she'd run the "Dad has another heart attack" scene in her head again. It seemed to get more dramatic on each imagining. In the latest version, Nancy still said "Look what you've done to him," but now added, "I think you've killed him!" And then Dad would look at her with sad, disappointed, dying eyes. So, having run through this little scenario again, there it was . . . she was back in the dumps again.

She'd actually been avoiding her family as much as possible. It was just too difficult to keep the secret from them, and it made her miserable. Now a whole weekend stretched ahead. She'd actually cancelled on a blind date Rachel had set up for her, because, really, what was the point of that? So, now, she was even avoiding Rachel's calls, since Rachel's last, pissed off voicemail had said, "What the hell's up with you? Ken is a great guy, and I'd like an explanation of why you'd just up and cancel for no good reason at all!"

She shut down her computer and gathered up her bags. Well, now she was in a thoroughly bad mood. And not 15 minutes ago, she was feeling on top of the world for finishing the grant proposal. "Mood swings are to be expected," Internal Dr. Juliet said. "Shut up," she told herself. "If you're really such an expert, you wouldn't be in this mess in the first place."

Before turning off her office lights, she picked up the bottle of fancy champagne her department chair had left. It had just been announced that her research group had received the most grant money over the past academic year. The champagne was meant as a congratulations gift. It sat in her front passenger seat for the ride home, mocking her and her sour mood. A few glasses of fancy champagne – now that would hit the spot. But noooooo. No champagne for you, pregnant lady.

She hadn't thought it possible, but by the time she reached her building, her mood was even worse. She was bone tired. If she didn't have to speak to a soul for the next 48 hours, she'd be content. Maybe she'd spend the weekend on the couch with a book. Loser.

Walking down the hall to her apartment, she noticed someone at her door. "Just great," she thought. Her stomach did a flip as she got closer. It was James. And while her first, happy reaction was joy that he hadn't forgotten her existence, her second thought was "Damn him." Damn him! It was hard enough avoiding her family so she didn't have to tell them what she had to tell them. What was she going to say to him?

Maybe she could freeze him out, get him to leave quickly. Yeah, she was good at that sort of thing. What he doesn't know won't hurt him, she thought for about the thousandth time in two weeks. But damn him for being here. Damn him and his magnificent, lovely smile.

"Nice day for a visit!" he chirped.

"What are you doing here?" she asked in the dullest voice she could muster.

"Thought I'd drop by," he answered, nonchalant and smooth. "Whatcha celebrating?" he gestured at the champagne bottle in her hand.

Stupid, useless champagne. "I'm not celebrating," she answered.

Damn him. Damn him and the creepy déjà vu he seemed to always have lingering about him.


	9. Battle of Wills

**To keep these chapters from getting insanely long, I have gotten in the habit of updating two at once. I guess that is OK. Sorry, I think the story seems to be getting insanely long, too. I promise, I do know where it is going. Depending on how much I keep breaking up the chapters, it will probably be 6-9 more chapters long. Sorry it's gotten somewhat out of hand. There is an ending, though! I promise! It's just a matter of getting there . . .**

He'd been waiting outside her door for an hour and a half and had actually started to wonder if she'd ever show up. What if she was on another trip? He should have called. Definitely. Except he was operating under the "better to ask forgiveness than permission" principle.

It was closing in on 6PM. How long was he going to wait? She couldn't still be at work. What if she was on a date? What if she was having drinks with someone, and was going to bring that other someone back with her?

Showing up unannounced at a woman's door on a Friday afternoon. This was the stupidest fucking idea of his life. But then the elevator doors at the end of the hall opened, and there she was. No, it wasn't a stupid idea at all. Because he had been telling himself over and over that he was never going to see her again, but there she was. Wow. Had he forgotten how good she really looked? Seeing her again? Maybe the best fucking idea of his life.

He tried to act cool and nonchalant, but she wasn't buying his lame jokes. "I'm not celebrating," she'd answered, showing less emotion than the damn champagne bottle. And she'd unlocked the door to her apartment and waved him in. She set down her bags, her bottle of champagne, and threw her keys on the counter. Then, for the first time, she looked him in the eye, gave him a tight-lipped half smile and a curt head nod.

This was the stupidest fucking idea of his entire life. Clearly she had no desire to see him. It had been six weeks since he'd spent the afternoon here. And in that six weeks, he'd completely turned his life upside down. Because of her. Everything had changed, but for what? What had he been thinking? Less than 24 hours with this woman, and his life would never be the same.

And now she was putting things away, straightening up, hardly looking at him. But of course, he thought. He'd left here six weeks ago, and his life had gone topsy turvey while she'd gotten back to her normal life. Maybe he was a nice memory for her. Maybe an embarrassing memory. But a memory nonetheless. What was he supposed to say? "You're the reason I get up at 5 AM to go serve coffees to arrogant, preening sissy boys"? "You're the reason my life is completely different now"?

It dawned on him how incredibly lame and needy he would seem to say any of those things. Yes, things were completely different for him now, but surely for her, she'd just gotten on with life as usual. She'd spoken fewer than ten words to him, she'd been here less than two minutes, and his whole, newly constructed world was crashing around him. What the hell was the point of it all? How could he have been so deluded to think she'd be happy to see him? To hope that she'd thought of him even half as much as he'd thought of her?

Sawyer didn't do well with disappointment or hurt. And he _was_ hurt. Incredibly hurt with the dawning realization that while his time with her was life-changing, it clearly hadn't been life-changing for her. And when he was hurt, anger was his fallback emotion, so now he thought "Well, screw her!" She was still straightening up. Was she expecting company? Who was the champagne for? Probably some fucking douchebag arrogant over-educated doctor prick. She was planning on spending the evening with this hypothetical asshole and it made him sick. She clearly wanted him to leave. Save her from embarrassment when Mr. Perfect Douchebag showed up. Well, if she wanted him to leave so goddamn much, she could ASK him to leave. Until then, he'd just stand here devil-may-care and pretend he didn't notice how standoffish she was being. "Yeah, fuck you, Juliet!" he thought. He was boiling.

Hiding emotions were all a part of the game, though, so he just started in, easy peasy. "I been reading those Madeleine L'Engel books you told me 'bout. That _Wrinkle in Time_ was pretty damn good. Maybe I think Mrs. Whatsit is hotter than Professor McGonagall. I mean, tesseracts, huh? Pretty cool!"

No reaction. She'd stopped with the infernal straightening, but was just standing there, with her arms crossed, staring at him with that maddening, blank, expressionless face. "That's nice," she said.

He started in on a riff about his travels. Turbulence on the connecting flight, his trip to Boca Raton, the bad drivers he'd encountered, the seatmates on the flight out. "Remember that Word Find lady on our flight from Cincinnati?" "Vaguely," was her response.

"Just tell me to fucking get out of your sight!" he thought. He wanted to keep up his inane patter. He wanted to talk about random, boring shit until _SHE_ was the one to show some emotion. He just couldn't keep it up anymore. He was livid, but his next words came out bewildered, not angry.

"Jesus Christ, what the hell's gotten into you?"

Those must have been the magic words, because finally something flickered in her eyes. Her mouth twisted into a wry grin he could see she was trying to suppress, but she had no luck. She began to giggle, and then laugh. It was a hearty laugh, and he could tell she was trying to hold back. Her left hand was covering her mouth, but she kept on laughing, and it was infectious. He started to laugh, too. At what, he had no idea

When her laughter had turned back to giggles, he said, "You gotta let me in on the joke. I'm not sure I get what's so funny."

She wiped tears from her eyes. "You want to know 'what the hell's gotten into' me? I'm pregnant, James. THAT's what the hell has gotten into me. Funny, huh?"

Now it was his turn to stare expressionlessly. She continued, "I guess it isn't 'ha ha funny,' as much as it's kind of ironic. Or is it even 'ironic'? I hate when people misuse that word . . ."

She was still talking, he could hear that. Something about irony and people who mis-use words and who knows what else. He wasn't really listening. He was angry again. That fucking douchebag asshole doctor boyfriend was going to waltz on up here any minute now, and they were going to toast with their fancy champagne. A toast to their oh-so-perfect fucking lives. And now their perfect goddamn kid and soon they'd get their perfect goddamn house with some stupid, slobbering golden retriever. Fuck them.

She was still talking, ". . . and I should have called you as soon as I found out, but I . . ."

Oh. Shit. There was no fucking douchebag asshole doctor prick? Wait a minute. What was she telling him? "Wait. Hold on a minute," he interrupted her. "Are you saying that I . . . I mean, that we. . . that I . . ." he was sure he looked and sounded like an idiot, but that was all he could manage.

"What did you think I was telling you?" she asked

"I thought . . . I didn't . . . I . . . are you sure? That it's me, I mean?"

"I haven't slept with anyone else in a year and a half. So, you know, it's more than just a hunch that it's you."

His head was spinning. Too much had just happened. Not ten minutes ago, he'd been waiting outside her door, full of worry and anticipation, and then joy when he saw her, then disappointment at how she was acting, then anger at her, then happy to hear her laugh, and then anger at her (apparently non-existent) douchebag prick doctor boyfriend, and now . . . now what? What the hell had just happened? What was happening? And what would have happened if he had never showed up here tonight?

"You weren't planning on telling me?" he asked.

"I . . . No. In all honesty, no I wasn't."

"Because?????" he sneered.

"Because . . . because a lot of things. Because I didn't know how you would react. Because I didn't want you to feel obligated to do the 'right' thing."

Oh, sure, he thought. Nice excuse. Really the truth is because he was a lowlife ex-con, and probably the biggest mistake of her life, better gone and forgotten, and she could say all the right things, but he was angry again.

"Listen, sweetheart," he said. " Don't worry 'bout it. Doin' the 'right thing'? Ain't exactly my thing."

"If you say so," she said.

"I do say so! Don't pretend to know me!" It unnerved him. This wasn't the first time around her that he'd dealt with the unsettling feeling that she seemed to know him better than she possibly could. "I thought I was pretty clear – I'm not a good person, you realize that, don't you?"

"Sure. I Googled you. You served time for conning some woman out of a bunch of money. That's pretty miserable," she said, in that extremely calm and steady way. Infuriating!

"Yeah, well that woman I conned? I took everything she had. And guess what? I knocked her up, too. So don't got thinking you're special. Yeah, I got a daughter I ain't never seen before. That's the kind of person _I_ am. So, don't _you_ try to pretend I'm some kinda great guy," he was shaking his finger in her face.

"Why did you come here tonight, James?" she asked. "If you're such an asshole, why don't you just turn around and go back where you come from?"

He was irate, and he couldn't even pinpoint why. She seemed utterly calm, but anger sparked from her eyes. Tension hung in the air as they stood feet apart silently fuming at each other. Her request, that he turn around and go back where he came from, was what he'd been waiting for. It's what he'd been goading her into asking from the moment he stepped in the door. Victory. Whoop de damn doo.

Her cell phone rang. They still were transfixed. The phone kept ringing. She was the one to break the spell, stepping to the counter and picking up the phone. "I have to get this, it's work," she said.

He stood watching her talk in her soothing professional voice. Something had gone wrong with a patient. The on-call doctor had called for advice. And that was about all he could understand. Everything else was pure gibberish to him. "Did you try an external cephalic version?" he heard her ask. "It's probably too late," she continued. He dropped his head into his hands and violently rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. Why did so much of what she did and said seem so familiar?

She continued with her colleague. Nothing Sawyer could ever hope to understand. He'd Googled her, too. Turns out she was something of a big shot in her field. Way more than she'd ever let on. Some kind of scientific superstar. Totally and absolutely out of his league.

He complied with her request, turned around, let himself out, and shut the door behind him.

**OK, 'nother update coming right up (I hope), unless the All Star game stays close.**


	10. The Elephant in the Room

**So, picking up right where we left off . . .**

Things were going to be fine with Mrs. Wallace. Juliet hung up with the hospital, and pitched herself face-first into her sofa. Things had gone horribly wrong with James. Totally, irrevocably, irredeemably horribly wrong. From the moment she'd seen him standing at her door, it had been her goal to get him to leave. And he'd left. Victory. Whoop de damn doo.

But the whole point of getting him to leave was to keep from telling him about the baby. And, boy howdy, that didn't work out, did it? Nooooooo . . . Thank God she didn't have any state secrets. Because all he had to do was talk a little about some books, tell some charming stories about his trip, ask a pointed question, and voila! There she went just spilling everything.

He'd been angry, and who could blame him? Was it true what he'd said about having a daughter? Or was he just lashing out? Somehow she knew it was true. And it made her feel sorry for him, not angry at him.

Who knows why he showed up here tonight? Probably wanted to get laid. Well, ha, the joke was on him. Serves him right.

Her Weekend of Solitude stretched ahead. Yippee dippee. Somehow the Weekend of Solitude had lost most of its charm. What hadn't lost any potency was her exhaustion, and she actually began to doze off. She wasn't sure if she'd been asleep for minutes or hours when a knock at the door woke her. "When you are attempting to commit yourself to a Weekend of Solitude, people really should just leave you the hell alone," she thought as she rolled up off the sofa and went to the door.

To her surprise, she saw James at the peephole. "Can I help you?" she said, opening the door.

"I was thinking," he said, "that it might be poor form to ambush people outside their apartments after a long week of work."

"You could say that," she replied.

"Well, if there was something I could do to erase the last half hour, make it so it never happened . . . can we start over from about thirty minutes ago?"

"You can't erase the past, James. What happened, happened." Her ears buzzed. Why was it like this around him? Couldn't she just enjoy the presence of his company without constantly being ambushed by this "been there, done that" feeling?

"All right, then," he answered. "I apologize for flying off the handle."

"It wasn't entirely unjustified," she admitted.

"Can I take you to dinner?" he asked.

They spent the two-block walk to a local Italian place talking about not much. They lapsed into an unstated understanding to talk about "safe" subjects -- the weather, movies they wanted to see, problems with his rental car. She realized they were avoiding talking about the hurtful things they'd already said and the important things they needed to say. And for now, that was OK. She had missed him, she realized, and was perfectly happy to talk about meaningless things for a little while.

Once seated, she was intrigued to hear about his venture into the coffee business. "First honest wages I've gotten since I was 17," he proudly stated. "I know it ain't impressive or nothing, but hey, gotta start somewhere, right?"

"It seems impressive to me," she said. "Just starting over like that? I don't think I could do it."

"Here's the thing, though. The city is on our ass big time about some building permit or something, and we don't got the money to pay for it. We need $40,000, or the business is going under."

For a second, her heart sank. He hadn't come to catch up, he hadn't come to see her, shoot, he hadn't even come to get laid. He'd come for money. Was it possible? But something seemed off. He was looking at her funny. "Seriously James." It was meant to be a question, but she realized it came off more like a capitulation to reality.

"Nah!" he laughed, a joyous laugh, a little boy's laugh. "But you should see the look on your face! Priceless!"

"Touché," she replied.

"Don't worry, I don't need money. I told you I wasn't gonna ever ask, right? So, anyway, what's new with you? "

She set down her fork, wiped her mouth with a napkin, and stared at him for a second. "What's new? Oh, _gee_, I don't know. Nothing much, really, James." OK, so now they were going to talk about the elephant in the room?

He looked chagrined. "Oh yeah." He cleared his throat. OK, she thought, here it comes. "And your dad is OK? Getting better?" Still avoiding the obvious, fine, she wouldn't push.

"Yeah, he's doing remarkably well. He's got to do some stress tests this week, but things are looking really good. He'll know more when he visits the doctor on Tuesday."

"And that's normal? Seeing the doc again?"

"Sure. It's just Tuesday will be six weeks exactly since his bypass . . ." she trailed off. "Not that I'm _counting_," she thought. Because it was also six weeks exactly since she'd spent the afternoon in bed with James, and since . . .

She saw him blushing and staring at his plate. He was thinking the same thing she was. OK, she thought (AGAIN), here it comes. But instead, the waiter approached, clearing their dinner plates, and offering dessert menus. And the moment passed. Or she let it pass. She wasn't going to push.

It was a beautiful night, and as they walked the two blocks back to her apartment, he took her hand. She was glad she wasn't looking at him, because she closed her eyes and deeply sighed. She realized they hadn't touched all evening. God, it felt so good just to hold his hand, and she stepped closer so their shoulders and upper arms were touching as well. But she also felt nervous as a teenager on a first date as they approached her door. What was going to happen now? Was he going to kiss her? Say goodbye? Ask to come in? And if he did, what would she say?

He must've been nervous, too, because standing at her door, all he could muster was "Ummmmmm . . ."

Well, no point in beating around the bush. "What now?" she asked.

Now it was his turn to sigh deeply. "The last thing I wanna do is make promises I can't keep. How 'bout not lookin' too far ahead? I don't fly back till Sunday. Can we just spend time together for a bit? And just take it a little at a time?"

"That sounds fine to me," she said. "So, you want to come in?"

"Of course!" he said.

**Erm . . . I so wasn't planning on leaving off here. But, oh well, I am just sort of out of words for now and it is late. I am on deadline this week (sadly not for fun and fluffy fan fic), so I guess that is it for a little bit. We'll see. **


	11. Getting to Know You

**I didn't break this one into two chapters like I have been doing, so (fair warning) insanely long . . . Thanks so much for the positive reviews. I was getting a wee bit bored of the story, so I appreciated them much. If you're not bored, then I'm not! (of course, you haven't read this insanely long chapter yet!)**

She rummaged in her bag for her keys, and fumbled with them once she found them. He'd agreed to come in, and she still felt self-conscious and nervous. Would they talk? Stare awkwardly in silence? But she'd hardly gotten the door closed and locked behind them when he placed his hands on her hips, turned her to him, and kissed her. No small talk, no pretext, and all her awkwardness and apprehension melted away.

"God, I've missed you so much," he whispered against her mouth.

"I've missed you, too." She had, she realized as he began to kiss her again. She'd missed him more than was reasonable. How could you possibly miss someone you barely knew? But she did. She'd missed the way he smelled, the feel of his hands, the way he scrunched his face and rubbed the right side of his face with his left hand when something perplexed him . . . "Huh?" she thought to herself at that stray thought, trying to recall when she might have possibly seen him perplexed.

But those large, rough hands, the ones she'd missed so much, had slid up from her hips, under her shirt, and onto the bare skin of her back, and there wasn't much thinking left to do.

He was exceedingly gentle. More so than she remembered him being, and even if he hadn't quite acknowledged or said anything yet, she knew he was thinking about the baby. Her suspicions were confirmed later, lying with him, as his hands skimmed over her side, to rest on her stomach.

He cleared his throat. "What I said before about doing 'the right thing'? Bein' honest, I don't even really know what that is here. Seems to me, someone like you'd be a lot better off without someone like me hangin' around."

"Why do you do that?" she asked.

"Do what?"

"Put yourself down like that. What is this 'someone like you' 'someone like me' nonsense? What's that supposed to mean anyway?"

"It's not putting yourself down when it's the truth," he said. "I'm a coffee boy -- a rookie coffee boy. A rookie coffee boy with a criminal record. I'm sure you're used to the sophisticated, successful doctor-lawyer type. I'm sure they'd be better for you."

"Well," she answered. "It's good to know you seem to be so sure of what's best for me. Besides, the sophisticated successful doctor type? Insufferably boring. Pretentious. Interested in nothing outside of their own remarkably narrow little lives."

He chuckled. "Yourself excluded?"

It was her turn to laugh. "Of course! I kick ass at everything. The sooner you know it, the better." She rolled her eyes. But she wondered. Maybe he did think she was insufferably boring. Pretentious. Why else would he be so concerned with his "someone like you" worries?

* * *

"I kick ass at everything," she'd said. She was obviously kidding, but Sawyer would have been hard pressed to come up with an argument against that statement. He was feeling very smug. "Insufferably boring. Pretentious," she'd called doctors. He chuckled, thinking back to the imaginary boyfriend he'd dreamed up for her earlier this evening. "Fucking douchebag asshole doctor boyfriend," he thought he'd called him. "Insufferably boring. Pretentious," sounded much more refined. To-may-to, to-mah-to, he thought.

But it reminded him: "So, what's the champagne for?" he asked.

"Hmmmm?"

"The champagne you brought in tonight – I figured it must be for a hot date."

"No!" she laughed. "My department chair gave it to me – my research group brought in a lot of grant money this year."

"Way to go! You know, I Googled you, and I gotta say . . ." he whistled. "Impressive!" (Seriously – didn't she think it was pretty damn weird that a smarty-pants like her was yoking herself to a nimrod like him?)

"Oh, I don't know," she said. "It's a research _group_ – a team effort."

"But you're in charge of it, right?" he asked.

"Sure, but, well, we got lucky with some results this year. It's really not that big of a deal."

"Why do you do that?" he asked.

"Do what?"

"Put yourself down like that." He realized they were simply repeating a conversation they'd just had. Smarty-pants vs. nimrod aside, he sensed, not for the first time, that she was a lot like him in many ways . . .

"It's not putting yourself down when it's the truth," she repeated his words verbatim, as if to prove his point.

"So, it's OK for you to do it, but not me?"

She snuggled against him. "It's just . . . what I do . . . I don't know. Creating life? It's very God-like. It could be pretty easy to let my ego get out of hand. I have to remind myself – there's a natural way of doing things that's worked pretty well for thousands of years. . ."

She trailed off. The words 'a natural way of doing things' were hanging. Not for the first time this evening, a window of opportunity had opened for them to talk about what came next for them. He wasn't ready for it, though. So much had happened so fast. Six weeks ago, he'd come to Florida for two-day trip. And then he'd met a random woman on a plane, and being with her had made him turn his life around. Or try to. Trying to go legit was a pretty huge step. Trying to be a father was a little too much at once. Or maybe not, but he lived across the country. And while she seemed oblivious to the fact, he just couldn't reconcile her station in life with his. And all this was too much for him to talk about. He'd prefer to just ignore it for a little while. At least until he could possibly articulate what the hell it is he thought should come next.

Not for the first time this evening, though, she quickly closed the window of opportunity, and changed the subject. He silently thanked her and wondered yet again at how easily she was able to read him, make him feel comfortable. He kissed the top of her head. God, it smelled so good.

"I got this job offer awhile back," she was saying. "It seemed like the opportunity of a lifetime. The research facilities they had, the money, the freedom from regulation . . . it sounded like a dream come true. But it was odd. Something was off. They lied to me about where it was located, and no one had ever heard of the company, and they just seemed to know too much about me. It was all very creepy. Even so, I was this close to taking the job . . ." she held up her thumb and index finger, nearly touching.

"So why didn't you?" he asked.

"I was only interested because of my ego. They told me I could help a lot of people, but that's not what I cared about. I wanted to go there and prove I could do what no one else could. And it dawned on me at the last minute . . . I chose this profession to help people, not to prove how smart I am. So, I called them up and said 'no thanks.' The rest is history."

"Do you ever think about it? What would have happened if you took the job?" he asked.

"Sure. 'The road not taken,' and all that. I do wonder. But, who knows? It's not like you get do-overs. Besides, if I took that job, I never would have met you." She elbowed him in the ribs.

"Oh, the tragedy!" he exclaimed. She tipped her head up to kiss him again. "James, good night. I'm exhausted." She settled into his chest and, amazingly, was asleep in seconds.

The next thing he knew, a shrill ring sounded in his ears. He was barely awake, and it took him a bit to put it all together. It was a phone, right next to his head. It was still ringing, and he tucked his head under his pillow, hoping to make it go away. And now someone was crawling over his back – and he remembered it was Juliet, and he'd spent the night here . . . was he on her side of the bed? She fumbled with the phone, and finally answered.

"_What?_ ... Wait. What? ... No. Don't admit her. Just meet me at the hospital."

She was up and out of bed.

"Who was that?" he asked, as she rummaged in the closet for a pair of hospital scrubs.

"Work. I gotta go . . ." she trailed off, at a loss for more to say. "Make yourself at home. I'll be back soon, I hope."

She was gone and he sat in bed staring helplessly. He heard the front door to the apartment slam shut. He desperately wanted to call out to her. "Wait!" he would say. "Wait! Haven't we done this before??? Why do these weird things keep happening? Doesn't this seem familiar to you?" Zip it, he thought. It's amazing enough that she's OK with the ex-con rookie barista. Let's not add "crazy lunatic" just yet.

She was back by lunch – a minor emergency at work, all settled. He had 24 hours before heading back to LA, and they may just have been the best 24 hours of his life. It rained that afternoon, and he sat on her couch with a book to read and her feet in his lap. She was stretched out occupying the rest of the couch, reading too. Or sleeping. At some point she woke and smiled at him. He set aside his book, moved his hands from her feet, up her legs, and scooted closer, until she was sitting in his lap. And they made love right there on the couch, like the babysitter who secretly has her boyfriend over after the kids have gone to bed.

Then they both slept, and woke up and ordered pizza, and watched the _Godfather II _on TV.

"What I wouldn't give to have seen this in the theater," he said. "Too bad I was only six in 1974. 'Course, I was 22 when part 3 came out – and that sucked."

"I wish I could've seen _Grease _in the theater," she told him.

"_Grease_? Lame!" he mocked.

"Yeah. What in the world would a goody goody like that blondie, Sandra Dee, ever see in a greaser like Danny, huh?" She knocked him over the head with a couch cushion. He leaned in to kiss her.

"I know how this one ends," he said, meaning _Godfather II_. "Let's go to bed early."

"An offer I can't refuse," she replied.

Sunday continued in the same vein, but was clouded by his impending departure. They sat at her kitchen counter, picking over their lunch. He had to leave in half an hour. There was so much to be said, and he still wasn't ready to say any of it. Couldn't they just read books and watch old movies and pretend that nothing else mattered? Probably not much longer, he realized.

And so he'd told her the truth: "I live nearly 3,000 miles from here. I can't change that. And I work at a minimum wage job. "

"You're telling me that my plan to soak you for child support was a stupid plan?" she'd replied and smirked at him. He was pleased she could make a joke.

"I'm telling you that taking it one day at a time is the best I can do right now."

* * *

While there were certainly times that she wished he could do better than "one day at a time," she quickly found out that "one day at a time" was pretty darn good. For the past two months, it meant a phone call from James every night around 10 PM.

She loved talking to him about her work. She realized that she _did_ tend to downplay her accomplishments, and she now realized why she did it. Every man she'd ever been with before had been, as James called them a "sophisticated, successful doctor-lawyer type." Those guys were so competitive, and any minor accomplishment she told them about was usually followed by them trying to top her with an even more impressive work achievement. James, however, was totally different. He was genuinely supportive, genuinely interested in what she did. One day, she solved a particularly knotty problem with some inconsistent data an experiment had returned. When she realized the person she was most excited to tell was James, not Rachel, she knew some kind of seismic shift had taken place.

But she still hadn't told Rachel she was pregnant. And James never brought it up. And really, as much as talking about the books they were reading, and the movies they had watched, and the work she was doing, and the crazy customers he saw . . . as much as she looked forward to his phone call every day . . . she couldn't get up the nerve to talk to him about the thing that most occupied her mind.

She was soon reaching the point where she was going to have to tell her sister and her family. The family's big 4th of July cookout became her "D-Day." She wondered about the teenagers who never told their family they were pregnant until they delivered the baby in the school gym locker room or something. How did they manage that? She wondered. Bulky clothes were surely the answer, so she guessed none of these kids lived in Miami in the summer.

There was just something odd about it all. She felt guilty to be hiding such a big part of her life from her sister. At times she felt mad at James for ignoring the situation, but, at least when she was talking to him, she did as much ignoring as he did.

They were having another one of their innocuous book conversations one night in late June. She was attempting to convince him that _Carrie_ was way scarier than either _The Shining_ or _Cujo_.

"I been reading the scariest book I ever read," he said.

"Do not say _The Stand_. That doesn't even come close."

"I wasn't gonna say _The Stand_. This one's nonfiction. It's called _What to Expect When You're Expecting_. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Juliet. That thing is like a book of nightmares. Do you have any idea how many things can go wrong? I mean, every single fucking chapter . . .it's a house of horrors!"

She paused. An expectant pause (pun intended, she thought).

"You still there?" he asked.

She realized this was how he was going to do it. Having a "Big Talk" was not his thing. This was his way of talking about it, and she was fine with it. More than fine – she was overjoyed. But she wouldn't make a Big Deal of it. She knew that having a "Big Talk" was off the table, and making a "Big Deal" of things was equally off the table. She knew him – completely – and it unnerved her.

"I'm still here. Don't freak out about it. Yes, a lot of things can go wrong, but usually they don't. Usually things are just fine."

"Are you reading this book?"

"No – I have a pretty good handle on 'What to expect when you're expecting' – it's my job, you know."

"Can I ask you some questions?"

"Shoot," she said. And he spent the next hour asking detailed questions from his book. She loved every minute of it. Things had been going amazingly smoothly for her, and everything really and truly was fine. She was proud to say it, and he seemed relieved to hear it.

The one thing that wasn't going fine was her undeniable case of nerves surrounding telling the news to her family. She was so glad that she and James were now talking about this. Finally! Someone to spill her guts to. She told him of her July 4th D-Day plan. And she went over and over and over various ways to break the news. She suggested they "role play" – James could play her dad. He got a huge laugh out of that. "That ain't my idea of 'role play.' If you wanna do a little 'role play' that's fine, but I ain't gonna be your dad!"

But she wasn't in the mood for jokes. She had a week, and she realized every night that she was driving James a little batty. "Jesus, Juliet!" he exclaimed one night. "They love you, right? You're happy about this, right? Sounds to me like you got good folks. They may be surprised, but they'll be happy you're happy."

"You're right. It's just, except for some minor teenage rebellion, I've always been 'the good girl' It makes me nervous."

"You'll be fine," he said. "I know you will." And she believed him.

But when the morning of the 4th rolled around, her nerves were back in full force. She couldn't keep her breakfast down. She paced. When she realized it was 8AM on the West Coast, she called James. No answer. Probably still sleeping. At least, that's why she hoped he didn't pick up the phone. She put worse thoughts aside.

She couldn't decide what to wear. She would like to be able to tell her news without her clothes doing it for her, but nothing seemed to fit. Her fallback – scrubs – was not appropriate 4th of July picnic wear. She needed to leave at noon. 45 minutes to go . . . she was trying on yet another outfit when there was a knock at the door. Good grief. Just what she needed to deal with. They'd go away if she pretended not to be home. The knocking grew louder and more insistent. "GO AWAY!" she thought. Her phone rang. Did these people not know about her July 4th D-Day? But it was James on caller ID, and she gladly picked up.

"Hey!"

"Hey yourself," he answered. "I know you're in there. I'm standing outside your front door. How about letting me in?"

"What? What are you doing here?"

"Just let me in, please. I feel like a jackass out here," he laughed.

She didn't think she'd ever been so glad to see someone in her life and wrapped him in a huge hug.

He grinned. "I know you're real nervous about today – figured you could use a little support."

**It is not lost on me that I seem to leave off every other chapter with him showing up at her apartment. This isn't intentional. I don't think. Oh well. So, thanks for slogging through and hopefully more to come later this week. Thanks for reading!**


	12. Fourth of July

**No, all my whining at my last update wasn't a threat to stop writing this story, so no fears. I will hammer it out to the very bitter end, even if it kills me. So, here we go . . . Chapter 12 (SheesH)**

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming?" she asked. Seriously, she thought – she'd have to call Rachel to tell her to expect another guest. And Rachel was acting like such a snot lately.

"I only just decided yesterday. So, I bought my ticket and took the red eye," he said.

"You just bought the ticket yesterday? For a cross country flight? James, that must have cost you a fortune! You have to let me pay for it."

He chuckled. "Three months, three weeks. Give or take a day or two."

What was he talking about? She gave him a quizzical stare.

"It took three months and three weeks . . . but you're offering to give me money. And you think it's all your idea. That, my friend, is how a con works. You, Dr. Juliet Burke, are a sucker."

"I am not a sucker -- that's your wishful thinking," and she waggled an eyebrow suggestively.

"Your wish is my command!" he exclaimed, reaching out to kiss her again.

"No time!" she said, pushing him away. "And what are you wearing?" What he was wearing was unremarkable for almost any man she'd ever known. Khaki shorts, a tight-fitting royal blue polo shirt. On James, it looked somewhat comical. He looked very nice, she had to admit; not himself, but nice.

"Well, I was tryin' to look respectable. This no good?"

"You look fine. A little out of character, but fine."

"Good," he said. "'Cause I tried on like five or six different outfits. Some of us don't look effortlessly beautiful." (if only he knew how many outfits she'd tried on!) At this he reached out again for a kiss. Obvious flattery. She pushed him away again, this time sticking a finger down her throat and pantomiming gagging. "No time!" she again admonished.

"Come on! It's been two months! I can be quick . . . I think I've proven it before."

"No." She was already dialing Rachel's number. And he was behind her, rubbing her shoulders, kissing her neck. She had to swat him away.

Rachel took the news that she was bringing an unexpected, last-minute guest about the way Juliet thought she would . . . with passive aggressiveness. Juliet couldn't deny that things had been strained with her sister. Rachel was no dummy, and she was not blind to the fact that Juliet had been distant with her lately. Juliet couldn't blame her. Still, Rachel's goody-goody, passive aggressiveness was infuriating.

"Well, I hope I have enough to feed him," Rachel said.

"We can stop at the store and get anything you need," Juliet said.

"No, we'll be fine . . . I think. If we don't have enough, I don't have to eat." Gah! Infuriating! Just tell me if you want me to bring something! Juliet thought. Rachel continued. "Well, a random, unknown last minute guy friend . . .this should be interesting."

"You have no idea," Juliet said under her breath.

But an hour in to the cookout at Rachel's and things seemed to be going just fine. Rachel was going out of her way to be overly nice. Juliet knew she was pissed. They always talked about everything, and now here she shows up with a guy she hadn't even mentioned before. Well, soon they'd get everything out in the open, and she'd just apologize, and maybe they'd get back on track.

James had the rest of the family eating out of his hands. He was clearly playing the role of "James Ford, coffee shop owner." He had Dad and Nancy charmed. Wow, he was good, she thought. He wasn't quite himself, even down to the blue polo shirt costume he was wearing, but how could she complain when he'd so obviously gained their trust? He'd stooped down to talk to Julian at the toddler's eye level; he'd helped Nancy bring in things from her car.

She was helping Rachel set out chairs and set the table on the patio, and they worked in silence. Wow, Rachel was _pissed_.

Juliet ignored Rachel's intentional silence, and noticed James was trapped talking to Dad, who was manning the grill. She hadn't warned James, and now she had to throw a "sorry" glance in his direction. Dad was obsessed with large-scale feats of engineering and construction. So, of course, when he'd heard James lived in LA, he had the opportunity to talk about the Owens Valley Aqueduct and the Los Angeles water wars. Oh geez. She really ought to have warned him. She thought back to her conference in Las Vegas two years ago. For weeks, Dad had bent her ear about the wonder that was Hoover Dam. She heard James mention that "Actually, I grew up in Alabama," and figured it was his attempt to end the lecture on the aqueduct. She hoped, for James's sake, that there were no super public works projects in Alabama . . . "Oh, now the Tennessee Valley Authority . . . they put up a bunch of hydro dams in the '30s," she heard Dad saying. Poor James.

Rachel was the one to rescue him. "Dad, are those burgers ready? Let's eat!"

"Sorry about my dad," she whispered to James as they sat down. "Hey, no problem," he responded. "You know _Chinatown_ had a lot to do with the LA water wars." James and his 70's movies obsession . . .

* * *

This wasn't so bad, Sawyer thought. He'd been second-guessing himself most of the flight out here. It was kind of a big step. But he preferred just showing up to "Talking About It." He really hated when women wanted to "Talk About It." It didn't actually matter, since the women in question were all part of the game, but even so, he dreaded those conversations. He felt like he and Juliet actually had a lot to talk about, but to his everlasting gratitude, she'd never once pressed the issue. He sort of hoped that gestures like showing up for this cookout would make the point without him actually having to say anything.

So far, so good. He could tell she was really glad to see him, even if she'd dashed his hopes of a quickie before the party. Still, though, in the car ride over, and now at the party, she seemed to be always reaching out to touch him, feeling reassured by his presence, or so he hoped. He definitely did not understand. When he was around her, he was always just himself, not playing any sort of role, and it confused him to think that she actually seemed to like the real him. Around her family, though, he was acting the part of "James Ford, coffee shop owner." This was his comfort zone – playing someone he wasn't.

Even better, they seemed to be buying it. All except Rachel, who seemed sweetly fake-nice. Otherwise, he was doing well. He'd only talked to little Julian briefly. He'd caught Juliet looking at him then, and he felt a little weird about it. As if she was evaluating him and his fitness for fatherhood, and it made him terribly self-conscious. So, he'd volunteered to help her step-mom bring things in from the car. She was a nice, sweet lady.

Then he'd done the "manly" thing and stood at the grill with Mr. Carlson, who seemed nice enough, if insanely long-winded about water projects and other feats of engineering. Jesus, this was boring. Juliet made eye contact at one point, as if to say "sorry." Mr. Carlson droned on, but boring as it was, Sawyer didn't really mind. Everybody should be so lucky as to have an embarrassing and boring, but loving, dad. He could almost picture himself 30 years from now, standing at a grill and bending some poor young man's ear about how the 1970s were the glory years of US movie-making.

Luckily, lunch was ready right as Mr. Carlson was starting in on the internal politics of the TVA. Sawyer pretty much ate in peace as the rest of the family talked over one another. Every time there was a minor pause in the conversation, though, he tensed up, thinking, "OK, here we go . . ." but the moment always passed. Rachel and Juliet seemed to studiously avoid talking directly to each other. There was tension there, he knew, and he could almost picture them two decades earlier, as teenagers nursing hidden grudges.

So he shouldn't have been taken totally off guard when everything came to a head unexpectedly. Julian had long since been excused and was splashing around in a kiddie pool when Nancy stood up. "Who wants ice cream and pie?" she asked.

Mr. Carlson raised his hand. "One for me," he said. "Please," James answered. "Same here," said Juliet.

"You sure about that, Jules?" asked Rachel in a nicey-nicey voice.

"Rachel, it's my famous apple pie!" Nancy said, sounding a little bit hurt.

"The problem isn't the quality of your pie, Nancy," Rachel smiled at Nancy. "It's the quantity of Juliet's waistline. Hitting the Ben & Jerry's a little too often, are we?" She looked at Juliet a little triumphantly. Sawyer's first thought was that sibling rivalry was a bitch. But mostly he was just angry at snotty Rachel and the stick up her ass. So he started to rise from his seat, "Hey now . . ."

"This doesn't concern you, mystery man," Rachel said.

"Sit down, James" Juliet ordered. Sawyer sat.

The sisters were glaring at each other. Mr. Carlson admonished, "Now girls . . ."

Rachel was supposed to be Juliet's best friend as well as her sister. He knew Juliet felt terribly guilty about hiding things from her. But, screw Rachel, he thought. She didn't need to be such a Grade-A bitch, did she? Mostly, he was extremely ill at ease. Family dynamics, boy, thought Sawyer. There were defined roles, here. Big sister, little sister; nice, motherly sister, hard-driven career gal sister; dynamic and outgoing sister, reserved and sarcastic sister. He was an expert at playing roles, but he'd never had to play the role of son or brother and it was clear there were fault lines here and he would be wise to steer clear.

"So, pie?" Nancy asked again.

The sisters hadn't broken eye contact. "Nancy, maybe you should sit," Juliet advised in what Sawyer now recognized as her professional voice. Much like he had done, Nancy immediately sat. Over on the patio, Julian splashed in his kiddie pool. The silence seemed endless.

Juliet cleared her throat and started to talk. "I . . ." she cleared her throat again and again attempted to speak. He reached over and took her hand. OK, here we go, he thought. And when she did speak, it all came out very quickly, almost in one breath. "I'm pregnant, and I've known for more than two months, and I'm sorry I didn't say anything to you guys, but I was waiting for the right time . . ." here there was a pause as she needed to catch her breath. All three of them – her dad, her sister, her step-mom – stared at her, stunned.

"And James and I – we're really excited about it," here she looked at him, with a questioning look. He responded with a smile and nod, yes, "excited about it," he hoped to reassure her. But now all three of them – her dad, her sister, her step-mom – turned to stare at him, and as a group they looked from him, to Juliet, back to him, as if they were at a tennis match.

Mr. Carlson held the strongest stare, and Sawyer chose to look at him. Mr. Carlson was looking daggers at him. Jesus, the guy's blue eyes were as cold as ice and were unwavering (that's where she gets it from, he thought). Sawyer attempted a steady gaze back, but was growing more and more uneasy. He felt like a frightened little boy when he broke eye contact to stare down at his plate.

Jesus, he was uncomfortable. He desperately tried to come up with a joke or a witty remark to cut the tension, but there were no answers staring back from his plate.

"Your potato salad interesting, son?" Mr. Carlson asked.

"No sir," Sawyer mumbled.

"Speak up, I can't hear you." Mr. Carlson had placed both palms on the picnic table and seemed to be pushing up from his seat.

"Gregory," Nancy placed a hand on her husband's arm. Her simple touch seemed to release some of the tension. Sawyer silently thanked her for her cooling effect.

"And you live all the way in Los Angeles?" Mr. Carlson was now asking.

"Yes, but I've come to Miami a few times now."

"Well, _**clearly**_," and it seemed like the tension was rebuilding.

Now Juliet spoke again. "When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bonds which have connected them with another ..." she trailed off.

Now everyone, himself included, stared at her as if she had sprouted an extra head. What was she going on about?

"It's the preamble to the Declaration of Independence! Happy July 4th everybody!" she said with enthusiastic, and obviously fake, cheer.

He wanted to laugh out loud, but feared it would be inappropriate. Nancy and Rachel, he realized though, were giggling. Mr. Carlson was doing his best not to break a smile. He suppressed it quickly and turned the death gaze on Juliet. "Young lady, you can't always joke your way out of situations that make you uncomfortable." (Although there's never harm in trying, thought Sawyer).

"I know, Daddy," she answered.

"Well, come here and give your old man a hug." She did, and Sawyer saw that she was crying. He wanted to help, but instinctively felt this was her dad's moment. Nancy got up. "Well, let me get that pie," she mumbled.

That left Sawyer staring across the table at Rachel. "Don't let her fool you," Rachel said. "She's not as tough as she acts." Sawyer nodded. He'd never really thought she acted all that tough, but what did he know? Rachel went on. "You hurt her, I'll kill you."

"I ain't gonna hurt her," he said.

Rachel gave him a funny look. He realized he'd slipped back into his natural speech patterns. "James Ford, coffee shop owner" didn't use "ain't."

"Good. I think I believe you," she said. She took both his hands in hers, gave them a pump and said, "Well, congratulations, and welcome to the family." Then she gave him a genuine smile, and for the first time, he saw a bit of her sister in her. But the smile quickly gave way to a stern, expressionless face. He almost laughed at the similarity. "But don't forget my warning."

**I'd like to try to put up another update later today, because that will be it for this story for awhile at least (mostly because while I have an idea for the next chapter and for several chapters at the end, there probably needs to be a filler chapter between them, and that has got me stumped).**


	13. A Flower

**The first of a handful (maybe only one more) filler chapters to get to the end . . . although I finally figured out how to make this one less fillery (yeah, not a real word, I know). I have to say, I am out of deja vu elements . . . since on the show, most of their scenes involve one or the other of them shooting someone, or threatening someone with a gun, or getting shot at by flaming arrows or threatened with hand removal or escaping death through Hurley's timely arrival in a Dharma van . . . and none of that really fits in my story. Good thing the end is approaching soon enough . . .**

She was positively giddy that night, cooking dinner for two in her apartment. What a relief to have everything out in the open. She should have just told her family sooner, but the longer she put it off, the more difficult it became. She absolutely hated to disappoint Dad, but he had given her a big hug and whispered, "I'm happy for you, sweetie" to her. Before she had a chance to completely break down into tears, though, Dad turned to the group at large. "As long as we're having 'true confessions,' I'd like to know which one of you refilled my good vodka with water back in '89."

"You knew about that????" Rachel's outburst left no doubt as to the guilty party.

Upon reflection, yes, indeed, she should have told them all much sooner. After all, Rachel waited 15 years to tell Dad she'd siphoned off all his good vodka. Her family was excited and happy for her. They were, however, offended she'd kept them in the dark for so long. She'd tried the "I was worried about Dad's heart" excuse, but Nancy put the kibosh on that. "_He _gets to use the 'Oh, my poor heart' excuse to get out of yardwork. _You_ don't get to use it for this," she'd said. So, OK, Juliet would have to spend some time atoning for her silence. That she could do – starting Tuesday night when she took Rachel to dinner.

Tonight, though, was for James. Tomorrow, too, since the Fourth fell on Sunday, and tomorrow was the official holiday from work.

They hadn't hung around at Rachel's for too much longer after the lunch plates had been cleared. James was clearly anxious to leave, but had offered to stay as long as Juliet wanted. "No," she said. "This will give them plenty of time to talk about us before Dad and Nancy have to leave."

She'd felt the first waves of giddy relief on the drive home. No more hiding from her family. Seriously, what had she been thinking hiding this news from them? Her giddiness manifested as a constant, mindless chatter the whole ride home and in the elevator to her apartment and down the hall to her door. She hated mindless chatter. Silence, she felt, was infinitely more her style. So, when her mouth seemed to ignore her internal commands to "Just shut up already," she apologized to James for her non-stop motor mouth.

"Shut yer yap," he smiled and kissed her. That, indeed, shut her up right quick. Sill on an unbelievable high, she forgot any self consciousness she may have had about her body. Rachel's mean-spirited remark about her waistline may have been inaccurate as to the cause, but it wasn't entirely off-base. More than once today, Juliet had thought about being alone with James and idly wondered about how he'd react to seeing her naked. But it hadn't mattered. Not at all. She didn't even realize it hadn't mattered until she sent him out to the store for some Ben & Jerry's and realized that all things aside, she had been "hitting the Ben & Jerry's a little too often." She was just so hungry all the time.

She would cook dinner for them and then they could eat ice cream and watch the city's fireworks from the big windows in her living room. She'd shooed him off to the store for ice cream and beer (he'd been disappointed to find her fridge inadequately stocked). She'd have dinner ready (or close to) by the time he got back. "We have to be ready to watch the fireworks. They are really amazing."

"Really?" he laughed.

"Yes! I thought I told you about it already . . . they launch them from right out there. Weren't you listening?"

"Well, when you said the fireworks at your apartment were great . . . I thought you meant something else."

And that wasn't off-base, either. The real, honest-to-God fireworks the city of Miami would launch after sunset were quite incredible. But the euphemistic fireworks that the two of them launched that afternoon were nothing to sneeze at. She almost didn't question anymore. How comfortable and exciting and old and new he felt. What was the point in questioning something that just felt so right? She just needed to stop over-analyzing everything in her life and accept what was right here.

And as she turned to drain the pasta, she realized he was back. He had his beer and her ice cream . . . and a pretty yellow flower. He looked like a dope. But he was her dope, and that was enough.

* * *

He could have spent the afternoon in her bed. In fact, he would have preferred to. When they'd gotten back to her apartment, he was so hungry to be with her again. She'd been unusually talkative the whole drive back. It was actually kind of cute. "Cute" was never a word he'd associated with her, but there it was. Obviously, she was relieved to have told her family everything. And they'd accepted him. Grudgingly, perhaps, but he'd take "grudgingly" for now. And so, on and on she'd babbled.

Totally not her style, he thought. He'd talked to her on the phone every night for two months. He knew that if she didn't have anything to say, she wouldn't say it. She never felt the need to fill silence with chatter. So, it entertained him to hear her go on and on and on about her dad and his love of engineering projects and her step-mom and her step-mom's pies for the ride home. But when they reached her door, he felt enough was enough. He wasn't interested in hearing about her dad and the ill-fated family trip to Loudon Dam in 1982. He didn't care to hear that Nancy's apple pies were significantly better than her pecan pies. No. And when Juliet apologized for her diarrhea of the mouth, he'd just taken it as an opportunity to use his own mouth to shut her up for good.

Never in his adult life had he spent two months celibate. Never in his adult life had he wanted a woman as much as this woman. The combination was too much. Never in his adult life had he had a home, and she was his home. He couldn't tell her so. This woman who knew what it was like to have a real home, a real family, a real life. She would laugh. Instead, he could revel in her new curves, and he could revel in the way she laughed and in the way she always seemed to know how to touch him just so. He could revel in pretending to be something better than he was. If this woman, this intelligent and successful and beautiful woman could love the real him, then there had to be something worthwhile in him, right?

But then she'd asked him _that _question. He could have stayed in her bed all afternoon. He could smell the back of her neck and run his hand over the flare of her hips and place his hand over the swell of her abdomen that scared and excited and cheered him. But, no, her giddiness was back and she just had to ask:

"Have you told your parents yet? Because that was exhilarating!" she said.

"No." He hoped it was a sufficient answer.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Are you scared they'll ask you who stole their vodka?" she teased.

But that was just it: _this_ was why he wasn't worthwhile. He'd spent his life becoming the awful, despicable, lying man he despised. "My folks died awhile ago," was the best he could offer her. He hoped, again, that it was a sufficient answer. Would she ask how? Would she ask when? Would she ask why?

"I'm so sorry," she'd said, and snuggled against him. "Thank you," he thought. Shit, if there were a God, this woman was proof. Thank you, thank you, thank you for not making me explain.

And now he wandered the grocery aisles. Beer and ice cream. She'd practically kicked him out of bed. Apparently, her apartment provided a front-row view of Miami's municipal fireworks show. He'd assumed her talk of the amazing fireworks show was a euphemism. But it was literal too, and she was going to cook him dinner. He had Chunky Monkey in one hand and a six-pack of Coors Lite in the other when he passed the grocery's flower stand. What the hell? He'd always sort of thought that flowers were for pussies. But she'd been so happy, and when he'd said his folks were dead, she hadn't pressed. She understood, didn't she? Somehow, someway, she just knew when to leave well enough alone. And since he preferred gestures to the "Big Talk," and since there was no way to appropriately thank her, he found the prettiest yellow flower they had for sale, and bought it along with the beer and ice cream.

When he got to her apartment, he knew, though, that he looked like a fool. What dope comes back from the grocery store waving a flower around?

"Is that for me?" she asked, nonplussed. And it should have confirmed his fears of looking like an idiot. Instead it set his nerves on edge. Here it was again: that creepy sense of déjà vu he couldn't shake off when she was around. So he would ignore.

She hugged him. "Thank you for coming today," she said.

It was no big deal, he thought. Why wouldn't he have come? He knew she needed him. "Pshtttt. . ." is what he said. Meaning, "no big deal." He _did_ mean it. It wasn't his fault that this is what he'd already said before, right? She kissed him, but before he could adequately respond, she pulled back.

"I love you," she said and smiled.

"Too much! Too much! Too fast!" his brain clanged at him. But also: "Of course. This is what she always said." He wanted it to stop. He just wanted to accept what was right here in front of him. Why was it all so fucking familiar? And what was he supposed to say to "I love you?"

But she put both hands flat on his chest and pushed him away. "Don't respond to that," she said now, and turned away from him.

Ohhhh-kaay. Good, because he didn't have a response to that. If he thought he looked like a dope waving that flower around, it had nothing on him standing here now, waiting for her to say something more.

"I don't know why I said that," she finally said. "It's just . . ." she trailed into silence.

"What?' he prodded.

"Nothing," she responded. "It's crazy."

"Try me."

She looked at him. She was evaluating her response. What was it, he wondered?

"Sometimes. . ." she started and paused. "Sometimes," she started again. "Sometimes when I'm around you, I feel like it's all happened before, and I feel like it's not me saying or doing these things. . . no, that's not quite it. I mean, it _is_ me saying and doing these things, but . . ." again she trailed off, at a loss for words.

"A different version of you?" he asked. Jesus F. Christ, this was _exactly _how he felt. What the hell was going on?

"Yes! Exactly! I can't explain it."

He should have been relieved. He should have been thrilled to know that it wasn't just him. But somehow it was freakier to know it happened to her, too. Wouldn't it freak her out too much if he confirmed her fears?

"Hey, I was just teasing," he said, hoping to comfort her. He backed her against the counter and kissed her again. "Do we have time for more fireworks before the 'real' ones begin?" he asked.

**I meant to say that I stole a lot from Randy Newman's song "Feels Like Home" (my fave version is Raul Melo and Martina McBride -- it's on iTunes if you don't know it, or just Google the lyrics, they're pretty fitting). But then I deleted most of that part. Still, the lyrics are worth looking up -- they're lovely. Anyway, this is probably it for a good long while (maybe 2 weeks or longer). I may update my other story, but (yay!) I am going to the beach all of next week and I intend to write absolutely NOTHING for work OR for pleasure. Wheeee!**


	14. Travels with Juliet

**OK! I finally got this one written. It was the dreaded "filler" chapter to get me to where I felt I needed to get. I am _so_ glad to have it out of the way! (I actually named the Word doc I typed it on "filler.") That's not a particularly good endorsement to start the chapter, is it? Oh well. Again, thanks, thanks, thanks for all the positive feedback. At more than a few points, it's definitely what has kept me writing this or only working on my other story, so it isn't for naught! And almost 100 reviews. Cool! 100th review wins a prize (not really . . . )**

When he'd left her apartment early in the morning of the 5th, they'd made a promise to not wait two months before seeing each other again. She made the promise in all seriousness, but she actually was thinking "easier said than done;" however, as the summer progressed, it turned out to be done quite easily.

On the Wednesday after he left, she received approval to go ahead with a multi-center clinical drug trial. That meant a mid-July trip to the MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston to work with colleagues there and to make sure the I's were dotted and T's were crossed in regards to patient selection, treatment protocol, and data recording. And _that_ meant four days spent reviewing tedious paperwork and data recording protocols with a particularly obnoxious colleague. But since Houston was something of a halfway point between Miami and LA, it also meant (after clearing his coffeehouse schedule with Bob) four evenings and nights to spend with James.

That was a very good thing for any number of reasons, but most particularly because after spending endless hours collaborating with Dr. Steve Thompson, she needed the nightly reminder that not all men were unbearable, insufferable, one-upping assholes. Steve objected to almost every step in the protocol, suggesting alternate methods. Methods she'd tried, and determined had failed; methods that weren't approved in the NIH's go-ahead. And yet he persisted, until at one point toward the end of her first day there, she'd gritted her teeth and asked, "Steve, with all due respect, whose name is listed as lead researcher on this trial?" And when he'd mumbled, "Yours," she said "Yes. Thank you. I'll be happy to follow _your _ideas next time you have a treatment protocol approved by NIH, OK?"

After that, he ceased to fight her on every study detail, but had switched to one-upping pretty much anything she said. One of her residents had just been accepted at a prestigious fellowship program at Harvard? He'd had three residents accepted to the same program in the past two years. She'd run a 10K charity race the last time she'd been in Houston? He ran in the NYC Marathon last year. When she took first class to LA this time last year, she'd sat across the aisle from David Letterman? He'd roomed with Conan O'Brien in college. She was halfway tempted to tell him that her brother was simultaneously a NASA astronaut, multi-platinum recording artist, and relief pitcher for the St. Louis Cardinals just to see what Steve would say. And she didn't even have a brother!

"And you want me to go to dinner with this fuck-head?" was James' response after she complained about all this and then slid in "and he wants to go to dinner tonight."

As for going to dinner with this "fuck-head"?

"Well, he's a colleague, and, yeah, it's kind of important that we are, you know _collegial_."

"Have I told you yet that I have always thought that doctors are the most obnoxious, arrogant, pissy people in the world?" James asked.

"Yes, you've mentioned that. And have I told _you_ yet that I think men who spend most of their adult life using sex to con innocent and lonely women out of their life savings are the lowest of the low? And deserve to spend a night or two with obnoxious company?"

He laughed. "And have I told _you_ yet that I don't mind spending a dinner with obnoxious company if there's a guarantee I'll get laid at the end of the night?" Dinner arrangements were made.

Seconds before they sat down at the ultra-chic restaurant Steve had suggested, she whispered in James' ear, "You realize you would have gotten laid even if you had said 'no' to dinner?"

Steve was his usual obnoxious self, waxing rhapsodic about his new top-of-the-line golf clubs and his supremely exclusive country club. "Do you golf, James?" he'd asked. "Only if there's a little windmill and a hole where you have to shoot through a clown's mouth," James replied. Then Steve filled them in on all the wonderful features of his new BMW. "What do you drive, James?" he asked. "I got a used Ford Contour -- it gets me where I need to go, you know?" And when Steve had asked him what he did for a living, James didn't bother to talk about his minority share or his partnership in Bob's coffeehouse. Instead he said he "served coffees – minimum wage, but somebody's gotta do it, right?"

Walking back to their hotel that night, she kissed James on the cheek. "Wow! That was great! He kept trying to compete with you, and instead of one-upping him, you practically one-downed him."

"You think I didn't one-up him?" James laughed. "I _totally_ one-upped him."

"You must think more highly of the Ford Contour than I do."

"Why does he go on and on about his fancy golf clubs and country club and Beemer and wine cellar and blah blah blah blah blah?" James asked.

"Because he's an arrogant asshole?"

"Well, that's a given. But it's to impress you! Men do that sort of thing to impress women, and I could tell by the way he looked at you – he's trying to win you over."

"Oh, please. He's a colleague."

"Well, golly gee whiz, Juliet, colleagues ain't allowed to lust after pretty women?"

"Ones who are four months pregnant?"

"See! That's just it! The more he heard about my beater car and shitty job and mad Putt-Putt skills, the more it drove him nuts! 'What the hell is she doing with this ignorant hick? Why is she going back to her hotel room with him? Why is she having his kid?' Oh, I totally one-upped him. I'm going back to the Houston Westin with you, and he's going home to beat off, I guess."

"You're disgusting."

"Part of my charm."

Two weeks after the Houston trip she needed to be in Chicago to deliver a presentation at a conference there. Again, Bob gave James the time off. "I'll be working weekends through October, but it's worth it," he said.

She spent most of the night before her presentation refining and correcting her PowerPoint slides. She felt somewhat guilty. He didn't fly out to Chicago to sit in a hotel room and watch her struggle with re-sizing images and cursing Bill Gates and Microsoft, but he said he was "cool with it," and even agreed to listen to her run through her talk. Thank goodness he did, because when she got to the end and asked "Any questions?" she expected to see his eyes completely glassed over. Instead, he pointed out a pretty important error – she'd interpreted the results of a 1987 study one way in one slide, but another way in a second slide. She shook her head. For a guy who liked to perpetuate his "ignorant hick" persona, he regularly impressed her with his intelligence.

So, she corrected the slide, and amazingly, he agreed to sit through the presentation a second time. "Any questions?" she asked at the conclusion. This time he raised his hand like a second grade school boy. "Yes? James?"

"Yeah. I have a question. Can you take your top off?"

She smiled and blushed. "I don't think anyone will ask that."

"They should. Ahhhh . . . come on! Not that your slides weren't totally fascinating. But for a talk about sperm count and reproduction and all, it's not very sexy."

"You realize it's not meant to be?"

He chuckled. "Yes, I am sure the gathered crowd will eat it up. Me? Quite frankly, all this talk about male infertility, low sperm counts, low motility?" He faked a loud snore. "It ain't something I've got a problem with."

"Yes, I'm well aware."

* * *

He loved the trips to Houston and Chicago. He'd given her a hard time about going to dinner with her asshole colleague in Houston, but quite frankly, it was kind of a rush to know that she wasn't ashamed of him. And he wasn't kidding when he told her he had one-upped that bastard. He could see it in the guy's face. Anytime during dinner that Sawyer had reached over to hold her hand, asshole Steve had started a new story about his country club, or his Beemer, or his new temperature-controlled wine cellar. And when the dinner plates had been cleared and they were waiting on dessert, Juliet had rested her head on Sawyer's shoulder for a bit. And – ha ha! – that lead to Steve talking about his dad's new yacht. What a prick. Steve-o would spend the next two days going over paperwork or "protocol" (whatever the hell that was) with her, and all the while he'd be stewing over the ignorant, inbred hick she was spending her nights with. Served the son of a bitch right.

Chicago was even better. She asked him if he wanted to hear her presentation, and he figured she just wanted the chance to practice her words and her timing. But when it ended, she looked expectantly at him, as if she really wanted his opinion, and when he'd pointed out a problem he'd noticed, she actually changed her slides! And this trip didn't include any asshole colleagues for him to meet.

They'd now seen each other every two weeks since the July 4th weekend, and it just so happened that two weeks after the Chicago trip she was scheduled for a doctor's appointment that would include an ultrasound and the discovery of the baby's sex. During one of their nightly phone calls he'd asked if he could come. She called that a "stupid question." "Of course you can come," she'd said. And it wasn't that he expected her to say no, but sometimes it still amazed him that she accepted him so easily and so readily. The trips to Houston and Chicago had been great, but they also reminded him of her place as the well-respected researcher . . . and what she was doing with him and why wouldn't she dump him the first time something better came along.

But this evening they were sitting on her couch and looking at that day's ultrasound photos of their son. The little guy hadn't been shy about displaying the family jewels for the ultrasound tech . . . "Heh, heh, that's my boy," he'd thought, but wisely kept to himself.

He had to admit, he was relieved it was a boy. He already had a daughter, and he was thinking about her more and more of late. What if he ever tried to develop a relationship with her? Clementine was a three-year-old little girl who he'd seen only once – in a snapshot. He'd used her mother and conned her out of her life savings. What if Clementine found out he had another daughter? One he'd first seen more than four months before her birth? One whose mother he was falling in love with? No, a son was just enough different, and maybe that would make it better if some day, somehow he became a part of Clementine's life.

As for "falling in love with" Juliet? That's what he told himself, but it was a lie. If he had to be honest with himself, there was no "falling in love." Truth was, he was afraid to admit to himself, he had been love with her from about the time she smart-talked that Word Find lady on their cancelled flight out of Cincinnati. But that was way too weird. Love at first sight – that was for the movies. Six weeks ago, she'd said she loved him, and that had been way too weird too, because she immediately backtracked and chilled him with her "it all seems like it's happened before" or however she had phrased it. Too weird, too weird, too weird. But she hadn't mentioned it again -- not the déjà vu and not the fact that she loved him. Maybe she'd say it again someday, and he would be better prepared to answer this time.

His second night in Miami, he'd sat in bed reading while she went through a stack of paperwork. Finishing his chapter, he looked over to see her still clutching the papers, but her head drooped to her chest, sound asleep. He gently removed the pen from her right hand, and the papers from her left. She roused, but he said "Shhhh . .. go back to sleep," and rearranged her pillows so she could recline all the way. He reached over her to turn off the light on her bedside table, and settled in to sleep himself.

It was the first night they'd ever spent together with no sex involved. That wasn't entirely remarkable, he thought. Instead what was remarkable was that he felt so good about it. Their visits were few and far between and they always felt the inexorable tick of time working against them. When you were only with someone four nights, three nights . . . two . .. you had to make every night count. But, for tonight at least, he'd forget that time was their enemy. She would still be here tomorrow morning, and so would he, and tomorrow night, too. And even if he wasn't going to be here the night after next, he was sure to see her again soon. They had all the time in the world.

* * *

It was early September. They'd fallen back into their nightly telephone call routine, but she hadn't seen him in two weeks, and was missing him terribly. Part of the problem, she realized was that for the past few nights, something had been "off" in their conversations. Without body language and other non-verbal cues, phone calls just didn't match up with talking to someone in the flesh. She thought she was just imagining things – she had been extremely busy at work, after all. Even so, she just wanted to see him, and so asked if he thought he could come for a few days next week, or even next weekend.

But he couldn't come, he said. He had to go to Australia. For what . . . he wouldn't exactly say. He offered some half-baked story about coffee vendors and shade-grown coffee cooperatives, but nothing he said added up. How long was he going to be gone? Couldn't say. He'd never been so evasive or defensive around her.

He was leaving tomorrow. "Well that's good to know," she said. "I didn't realize I had to clear my travel schedule with you," he'd responded. Most of her was angry at him, but she could also tell something was bothering him and it made it hard to completely unload on him. Still though, he wasn't being very forthcoming about anything. Well, whatever. No point in arguing about it over the phone. "Fly safe," she said.

**You should probably just ignore me when I say how much longer I think this will be. I keep thinking up slightly new twists, etc. But as I am thinking of it right now, maybe seven more? So, if you are enjoying the story, then -- yay! You probably have a lot more that you will eventually get to read. And if you aren't enjoying the story, then this is fair warning. Stop reading now!**


	15. LAX

**As always, thanks for all the positive reviews everybody, and thanks for sticking with the story.**

The evening had been a constant reminder of her weak will – at least as far as saying no to him. Really, who could be expected to say "no" to that charming smile or those mischievous eyes twinkling just so? Besides, an extra scoop of ice cream every once in awhile never hurt. And two extra readings of _Green Eggs and Ham_? Sure thing. Not in a box. Not with a fox. Not in a house. Not with a mouse. What were aunts for, anyway? She drew the line at "Mommy doesn't make me bwush my teeth on Fwiday nights," and actually got Julian in bed only 10 minutes past his bedtime.

Now she stood at Rachel's fridge, miffed. How did Rachel not have any eggs? Sure it was just after 8 PM, but still, a nice plate of scrambled (non-green) eggs would really hit the spot. Or (non-green) ham . . . she checked the deli drawer. No ham, either? Well this just would not do! Although, come to think of it, she'd never particularly cared for ham. Ham. Heh heh. Just the word made her laugh. Ham. That Dr. Seuss knew what he was doing. She settled for a string cheese and a yogurt in a Dora the Explorer cup.

She turned on the Marlins game and sat with a few medical journals she'd been meaning to catch up on. Way sooner than she expected, she heard a key turn in the door.

"Hey, how'd the date go?" she asked as Rachel plopped down on the couch beside her.

"Great! Really, really great!" Rachel answered with a big smile.

Juliet cocked a skeptical look at her watch. "It's not even 9, Rach, how good could it have been?"

Rachel laughed. "Some people believe in taking it slow, and not jumping into bed willy nilly with men they barely know."

Now it was Juliet's turn to laugh. Rachel had been the one to line up three dates to prom, and attend two other schools' proms as well. When Rachel got her first apartment, Juliet visited her three weekends in a row, and a different guy was staying there each weekend. On the other hand, Juliet skipped prom. Not tough to do when you can accurately be described as "That really tall skinny girl? With the braces? You know, president of the Science Club?" When Juliet got her first apartment, the one and only male to spend the weekend there was Chippy, Rachel's dachshund. In all her 35 years, Juliet had slept with five guys; that was probably Rachel's count for second semester sophomore year.

But a life-threatening disease followed by nearly three years of single motherhood have a way of slowing anyone down. Rachel had only just recently returned to the dating scene, and seemed to have a whole new take on affairs of the heart.

Still – _once_. Exactly _once_ is how often Juliet had done anything in this field that could be considered remotely "wild." One time on Juliet's part did not wipe out everything in Rachel's crazy past, and she said as much now.

"One time, Rach. Only _once _have I 'jumped into bed willy nilly'"

"All it takes, little sis," Rachel said, and reached out to pat Juliet's belly. "Although, come to think of it, you can't even do that right. You want to have a fling with a man you meet on a plane? Fine. Have a fling and wash your hands of it. Don't spend the next six months tying up your phone every evening talking to the guy so that your sister can't even call you. Where did you say he was anyway?"

"Australia. Well, I guess he's on his way. He left LA this morning."

"What's he doing in Australia?"

"He _says_ it's something to do with coffee vendors."

"You don't believe him?" Rachel asked.

"I don't know."

She'd not told Rachel the entire truth about James. Nothing about his criminal past, at least. It had been enough of an effort to get back in her sister's good graces after keeping her in the dark in the early stages of her relationship with him. If she ever told Rachel the whole truth about him, she was sure Rachel would never accept him. So, she couldn't now share her nagging worries. He'd been flying all over the country to spend time with her. Plane tickets didn't come cheap, and he wouldn't accept any money to help. How was he paying for it all? She really, really feared this mysterious trip Down Under was some underhanded way to make a quick buck. Why else would he be so weird about everything?

Luckily, Rachel let it stand at "I don't know." Instead she asked, "Weekend plans?"

"I'm working at the free clinic tomorrow morning. After that? Organize my home office, I guess? It's a wreck."

They chatted about Rachel's date for a little while, but Juliet was out the door and on her way home by 9:30.

_EARLIER THE SAME DAY (LOS ANGELES)_

His flight was delayed, which really had just been a fantastic opportunity to sit in the airport bar and drink. He was working his way through his third whiskey.

"Dear Mr. Sawyer, You don't know who I am but I know who you are and I know what you done," he read yet again. As if he didn't have the whole thing committed to memory.

For once in his God-forsaken life he was finally on track, finally had something good going, something worth looking forward to, a real, honest-to-goodness reason for living. And then Hibbs walked into his coffee shop four days ago with a name (Frank Duckett) a location (Sydney, Australia) and a plane ticket to get him there.

Frank Duckett. Now he had a real name. That motherfucker. He'd ruined his life once before, and now he was back to ruin it again. Of course, Sawyer didn't have to go through with it. A better man, a smarter man, would probably just let it go. A better man would accept the good in his life now instead of fixating on all the bad in his past.

Too bad for Frank Duckett that Sawyer wasn't a better man. Sure, he'd spent a good part of the last six months fooling himself into believing he was a good person. He'd gone in to work for every single shift, earning an honest dollar. He'd met an amazing woman, been honest about who he was and the things that he'd done, and never taken a single solitary cent from her. She'd made him think he was a better man who could actually take an interest in the life of his child. She'd made him think he was a smarter man whose opinions, even on complex medical presentations, mattered.

But karma can be a bitch, and if he needed proof he wasn't a good man, the facts were right there in the name Frank Duckett. If Sawyer was a good man, fate wouldn't have sent him this name right at the very best time of his life. Fate would have sent him the name a year ago, or two, or five. No, this was a message sent from the universe: "You may think you've got it all going good now, but your life isn't supposed to be good."

So, he was going to Australia, and he was going to kill the son of a bitch. He would come back to the States with blood on his hands.

He wondered how he'd ever look her in the eyes again after that. He'd already lied to her about this trip, and it was a miserable feeling. And he'd have to keep right on lying, right? Because if he ever told her he shot a man in cold blood? If she could then imagine him pulling the trigger and blowing a hole in a man's gut? Well, that would be that, wouldn't it?

Maybe not, some secret, dark part of his brain offered. Maybe she could hear about him killing a man, maybe she could imagine _seeing_ him kill a man, but maybe she'd understand. That dark part in his brain actually fired off a startling, vivid picture of just that -- him killing a man, and her staring at him, shocked, but understanding. It was actually that weird fucking déjà vu all over again, and probably related to all the whiskey he'd consumed in the last 45 minutes. _Of course_ he couldn't tell her he'd killed someone. That would be insane. So he would come back to the US and just keep right on lying until that ate him up from the inside, too, and it would all be over anyway. One way or another, this relationship, this incredible, amazing thing he'd managed to somehow fall into, was all over. All because of motherfucking Frank Duckett.

He downed the rest of his drink, and tried in vain to get the bartender's attention. That asshole was busy flirting with some broad, mixing up her fancy drink, working his shakers and bottles like he was Tom Cruise in _Cocktail_ or something. "Hey, Shooter!" Sawyer practically shouted at him. "How 'bout another one here?"

"I think maybe you've had enough sir," was the snippy response.

"Just pour the goddamn drink," Sawyer growled.

But before he and the bartender had a chance to really get into it, his flight was called.

"Now boarding Oceanic Flight 742 to Sydney, Gate 8, all passengers, all zones."

So, this was it. Might as well get on with ruining what little good he'd managed to do with his life. He threw a wad of cash on the bar, gathered his things, and headed for his gate.


	16. Mikey's Break Room

**To quote Kermit & Fozzie, "Moving right along. . ."**

She got home that night much earlier than she'd expected to. How in the world was she supposed to guess that Rachel, of all people, would be home from a date before 9? She'd not said anything to her sister, but she'd packed a few overnight toiletry items on the off-chance Rachel was out all night. She chuckled again to think of Rachel chastising _her_ for improper sexual behavior.

The smart thing to do would be to go on to bed. She did have to be up early tomorrow (early for a Saturday, at least) to work at the free clinic, but she'd mentioned to Rachel that she planned to organize her home office, and there was no time like the present, was there? So she dove right in. Maybe tonight she could sort through the stacks of paper on the floor, cull out the useless stuff, and file them properly tomorrow. Immersed in years of paperwork, results, student evaluation forms, and journal articles, she was startled to hear her cell phone ring, then shocked to find that it was close to midnight.

Locating her phone, she glanced at the screen and was pleasantly surprised to see James' name. Had he gotten to Australia already? They'd ended on such a sour note when they last spoke, she was glad to get to talk to him again. Thank goodness she'd stayed up!

"Hey, you!" she answered.

"Your name Juliet?" came the reply. A rough voice she didn't recognize. She was immediately on edge.

"Yes. . . who am I speaking with?"

Instead of answering her question, the voice on the other end asked "You know a . . ." there was a noticeable pause … "James Ford?"

"I do. Who is this?" she was more insistent now, making her voice as menacing as possible.

"I'm Rodney, the bartender down at Mikey's Break Room."

She had no answer to that . . . as if she were supposed to know anything about Rodney or Mikey's Break Room. Why did he have James' phone?

Rodney continued. "He was acting up, got a little belligerent. Threw his phone at me. Your number seemed to be the one he calls most often. You his girlfriend or something?"

"Something, yeah," she answered.

"Well, we've got him settled in now, but we don't want him acting up anymore, so you'd better come down and get him."

Had she been wrong about his travel days? Was he still in L.A.? This Rodney didn't have an Aussie accent. What was up with James anyway? His mysterious trip and now this bender? But it didn't matter. Rodney, bartender at Mikey's Break Room, needed an answer.

"I'm sorry . . . I don't live in Los Angeles. His friend, Bob, might help you. His number should be in the phone as well."

Rodney laughed. "Los Angeles? Lady, I just assumed your 305 area code made you a local. Please tell me you're in Miami, or know someone who is."

"Wait . . . You're in Miami?" she asked.

"Yeah, we're at the exit before the airport," and Rodney proceeded to give her directions.

She couldn't deny she was glad he was here. But why? And drunk and belligerent in Mikey's Break Room?

Thirty minutes later she was pulling in to said establishment's parking lot, and starting to wonder if this was such a smart idea. The place looked like a dive bar out of central casting, and the few patrons she saw entering seemed none too savory. But, hell with it, she thought, and entered the dimly lit bar.

For a Friday night, the place wasn't particularly crowded. The bartender immediately guessed who she was. "He's over there," he said, pointing to a booth in the back right corner. She recognized the bartender's voice and figured he was Rodney. She took a step in the direction Rodney pointed out, but Rodney wasn't done talking. "He threw his phone at me."

"So you said," she answered.

"Left this mark on my forehead," he pointed to a nasty welt swelling over his left eyebrow. "I coulda called the cops."

"Thank you for calling me instead."

"I could still call them, you know. Maybe I should." Rodney stared directly at her, leaving no doubt what he meant.

"Fine. How much is it worth to you?" The whole thing felt icky, but she just wanted to get James and get out, and had no desire to play games with Rodney.

"Couple hundred bucks should do it."

"Fine," she said, handing him her credit card. She also had no desire to bargain with Rodney.

"You wanna charge it?" he asked, dumbfounded. "Lady, I can't do that. What am I supposed to ring up on the register? 'Bribe'?"

"Charge me $200 for a Sprite. I don't care how you do it, just do it." She was tired of this man, and tired of being in this place, and just plain tired. And she still had James to deal with.

She slid into the booth across from him. He sat, dull-eyed, with a bottle of Scotch and a half-filled tumbler glass in front of him. He looked up from the glass, sneering, no doubt planning to shoo off the unwelcome companion who'd just had the gall to sit in his booth. His face registered surprise when he saw it was her, and he managed a smile.

"Well helllloooooo gorgeous," he slurred. "Whassa nice girl like you doin' in a place like this?"

"I'm here to. . ." she started, but he wasn't listening. Instead he slid the bottle to her.

"Wanna drink?"

"No thank you," she responded.

"Hells bells, Juliet, this a bar," (she was having difficulty making out his words, they were so slurred) "what you doin' here if it ain't t' have a drink?"

"I've come to take you home," she answered. What had happened to him? What about his trip? His eyes were red-rimmed. Had he been crying?

"Home!" he scoffed. "Good idea. 'Cept I ain't got a home, so no place for me to go."

So, she was right, was she? He'd spent all his money on plane tickets . . . could he not afford his rent?

"James? Has something happened? Did you get kicked out of your apartment?"

"No, brainiac," he answered. "I got a place to _live_, I just don't got a _home_. Never ever have. Not since I was eight. So, you know. . ." his words petered out and he waved his hands in front of him in a "who cares" gesture.

She didn't know how to respond or have any clue as to what was going on. She just wanted to get out of here, and get him home with her. She could figure out the rest later. She stared at him helplessly.

Rodney approached the table. "Here's your Sprite, ma'am," he set the drink down with a pompous flourish. "And your bill. I added the Scotch, too." He indicated bottle on the table.

"Nuh uh," James sneered at the bartender. "She ain't payin' for my booze." He fumbled in his jacket pocket, attempting to pull out his wallet. He eventually got it, but was too drunk to pull out a credit card.

"The lady's got it, sir," Rodney asserted.

James was on his feet – unsteady, and swerving menacingly toward Rodney. "Listen here, you tattling son of a bitch," he looked as if he might take a swing.

Juliet was up now, too, and placed a hand on James' arm. "James, stop," she warned him. He turned to her and stared intently. His eyes were confused, almost as if he was searching her face for an answer. She looked back at him, trying for as calming and steady a look as she could muster. "Please. Let's just go." The confusion and tension seemed to drain from his face. The eerie déjà vu was back, and she felt confident in her ability to calm him down.

"I gotta get my bag," he said, and he lurched forward and picked up the large duffle at his feet. He swayed out of the bar. She kept an arm around his waist to keep him on track through the parking lot, and then she poured him into the passenger seat of her car.

"Sorry you hafta take care of my sorry ass," he mumbled at her.

"Let's just get out of here, OK?" she answered, pulling out of the parking lot of Mikey's Break Room, hoping never to return.

They passed a few more dive bars and a billboard advertising a strip club further down the road. At least she hadn't had to pick him up in a strip club. That would have been mortifying. The billboard hadn't escaped his attention, either. "You got a nicer rack than that stripper up there," he slurred at her.

"That's nice," she muttered sarcastically.

"You got a great rack, and it's better every time I see ya," he leered. He cupped his hands in front of his chest to demonstrate. Drunk as he was, he caught her dismayed look and tried to explain. "Don't get me wrong, it ain't why I love ya . . . or maybe is a lil' bit," his words were growing more and more slurred. "Not the main reason or nothin' . . ." his head drooped. Had he passed out? "Amazing tits," she heard him mumble . . . then nothing . . . then snoring.

Had he just said he loved her? Well, just fan-freaking-tastic, she thought. The father of her child, the man she loved, had just told her he loved her for the first time. While out-of-his mind drunk, mumbling about tits, and smelling like a frat house on a Sunday morning. _Just great_. That's a story for the grandkids, she thought, and said a silent thank you that he was no longer conscious.

It took considerable effort to get him out of the car. His bag had to stay behind, because there was no way she could get him and his bag, too. She practically dragged him to the elevator, propped him against the back wall, and pushed the button for her floor.

He stared blearily at the elevator control panel. "Gotta know the fence code," he slurred. His first words since "amazing tits."

"OK," she said.

"If you don't turn it off . . . it'll fry your brain." He passed out again.

When they reached her floor, she slung his right arm over her shoulder and wrapped her left arm around his waist.

She tried to shake him a little bit alert. "OK, gotta help me out a little here, James. We're almost home."

"Home . . ." he mumbled, and she immediately felt guilty. That was the word that had set him off before. She worried she'd have another outburst on her hands, but instead he said "Home. . . that's nice. Is nice here."

She propped him against the wall so that she could unlock her door. Once in the apartment, she immediately escorted him to the bedroom and pushed him on to the bed. Luckily, he was compliant, and it didn't take a superhuman feat of strength to get him to recline completely.

She remembered the hangover cure she and her friends swore by in college. First she had him drink a glass of water. Thank God he was still a compliant drunk. She refilled the water glass and returned to the bed. She sat next to him, and cradled his head against her chest. He actually began to giggle, but she ignored him. With the second glass of water, she forced two Tylenol pills down his throat, no problem. The final part of the hangover cure had always been a multi-vitamin. Too bad for him, she only had prenatals in her medicine cabinet. She placed the pill on his tongue, leaned his head back for water . . . and nearly choked him to death.

He spit water and a soggy purple prenatal vitamin onto the floor. "What the fuck????" he asked. "You tryin' to kill be with that horse pill???" And he passed out again. She decided it wasn't worth trying. The hangover cure had never been 100% effective anyway. She wondered why they stuck with it so religiously in college.

His breathing evened out, so she settled his head on the pillow, and got off the bed. It was now after 1 AM. She needed to be up in six hours for work at the free clinic. She took a step toward the bathroom, and his hand shot out to grab her, roughly, by the wrist.

"Where do you think you're going, Blondie?" he asked in a raw, almost violent, voice.

It set her nerves on edge. He was holding her wrist so tightly it hurt. "I'm just going to brush my teeth."

"No. Don't you leave me!" His voice was ragged. His eyes were open now and they were wild, frantic, until he found her eyes and held them

"I'm just going to the bathroom. It's right over there" She gestured with her free hand. But he gripped her wrist even tighter. Her heart was hammering. He was beginning to scare her. And this was familiar, too. But how could it be? Her wrist ached. What was happening? She tried hard to remain calm and keep her voice steady. "Please let me go."

"No! Don't you let go!" He shook her arm. He couldn't hold on any tighter. Why was he so desperate and clingy? What had happened to him? Something horrible. His face was so full of pain and heartbreak. She was scared to death, but she wasn't scared _of_ him. She was scared _for_ him. What had been so awful? What was he reliving in his alcohol-soaked brain?

"OK." She said. "OK, OK. Shhhhh. It's okay." He began to relax his grip. She crawled in to bed next to him, and he clung to her immediately. "Shhhh. Shhhh. It's all okay." She continued to soothe him, smoothing the hair back from his head. She felt his breath change from uneven gasps and sobs to a steady and heavy normal breathing pattern. She felt him relax against her. Her heart broke for him.

She was beginning to think she could slide away and leave him to sleep it off when the baby began furiously kicking. It's what he did every night around this time, and why she never seemed to get a good night's sleep. James' right arm was wrapped tightly around her stomach, and the kicks roused him. His hand slipped under her shirt and flattened out against her skin. "Is that . . .?" he asked, before choking and gasping again.

"Yeah," she whispered to him.

He clutched her tighter then and began sobbing again. "Please. Promise you won't let go. Please. You can't fall. You can't. Don't let go. Promise me."

"OK. I promise." As soon as she spoke, he relaxed against her again and was now snoring. She ached to know what had happened to him, and she dreaded knowing what had happened to him. The familiarity of it chilled her and confused her. 1:42, her bedside clock read. She couldn't skip the free clinic tomorrow. All those poor women counting on her for their prenatal care. She had to be up in just over five hours. Her eyelids grew heavy and she fell asleep with James still clinging to her as if his life depended on it.

**Sort of getting into the homestretch here . . .**


	17. Hungover

**This one's real heavy on Sawyer's state of mind. Hopefully not too much, though . . .**

He opened his eyes and immediately shut them again. Not only did his eyeballs feel too big for their sockets, but the bright sunlight in the room seared his brain. Like his eyeballs, his tongue felt several sizes too large. His mouth was dry, and his teeth felt fuzzy. He ran his tongue over his top teeth – Chia teeth, they felt like. He risked cracking his eyes open again. The light was still too bright, so he chose to look no further than what was right in front of his face. He was in a bed . . . and the pillowcase had bright green and pink polka dots. Now he felt sick. This was a chick's bed. He shut his eyes again. Ah, crap, crap, crap. He tried desperately to remember something about the night before. He broke out in a cold sweat. What the hell had he done?? Worse, _who_ the hell had he done?

He turned his head to look at the other side of the bed. The action made him feel dizzy, and he clenched his eyes shut to stop the spinning. When he felt steady again, he reopened his eyes . . . no one there. He shut his eyes, and listened intently for any sound . . . running water, a television playing, clattering in a kitchen . . .but he heard nothing. He fell asleep.

When he woke again, he felt somewhat better. The light didn't hurt his head as much as before, and he felt a little more up to the task of looking around. Rolling onto his side, he felt something hard pressing against his navel. He reached down to feel his belt buckle. He lifted the polka dot sheet to see that, minus his shoes, he was fully clothed. He felt a wave of immediate relief. Maybe he hadn't done anything – or anybody – stupid, after all. His shoes were resting on the floor, right near a damp patch on the carpet. There was soggy purple piece of candy – a Jolly Rancher? – in the middle of the damp patch. He sucked his teeth – had he been eating candy last night?

He risked expanding his field of view beyond his shoes and the candy puddle. Perhaps he could get some clues as to his whereabouts. All he saw was an overstuffed armchair and ottoman. A white blanket was slung across the back of the chair. A green blanket on the ottoman brushed the floor, a three-ring binder lay open on top of the green blanket, and a pink highlighter and red pen rested on the binder.

The chair was vaguely familiar. His stomach dropped, and he felt sick – he'd had sex in that chair. He could see himself gripping the right arm of the chair so tightly, he worried he'd tear the upholstery. And he'd been gripping _her_ with his left arm . . . And then what? He'd zipped up and collapsed into bed? Who the hell was she? And why was he such a shitheel? He broke into a cold sweat and thought he was going to vomit. He squeezed his eyes shut. He remembered a woman's voice saying "There's a perfectly good bed right over there," and he remembered being too far gone to stop and move to the bed. Now he tried to ignore the waves of nausea he felt. He regulated his breathing to combat the nausea and ultimately fell asleep.

When he woke again, the first thing he saw was that goddamn sex chair. It made him sick to think that all it took was a drunken bender and he was back to picking up random chicks in bars. He hated himself with an unmatched intensity. He stared at the three-ring binder on the ottoman. Guess things hadn't been too passionate -- they'd managed not to knock the binder or the green blanket it was sitting on to the floor.

He focused more intently on the white blanket draped over the back of the chair. Funny looking blanket. No, it wasn't a blanket, he realized, but a white shirt. A huge white shirt. Who lived here, Hagrid? A new wave of nausea . . . whoever she was . . . this was her husband's white shirt. Jesus Christ, had he fucked her right on top of her husband's clothes? Judging by the length of that thing, the guy was a giant. No one was _that_ big . . . maybe it was a blanket, after all. No, it was definitely a shirt -- it had sleeves. He needed to get out of here before Hagrid caught him . . . He stood uneasily and walked to the chair. He stared at that damn shirt like it was the key to everything. It wasn't a shirt at all . . .it was a long lab coat, the kind doctors wear. He'd fucked around with a doctor's wife? He picked it up and squinted at the navy blue words stitched over the breast pocket. "Juliet C. Burke, MD, PhD."

His knees felt week, and he collapsed onto the ottoman and received a binder ring up the ass in return. He yelped and jumped up, swaying unsteadily. He looked around the room. Of course! Yes, he had had sex in that chair but that was more than two months ago, not last night. What had happened last night? How did he get here? And where was Juliet?

He left the bedroom, searching for her. Had he said or done something so stupid that she wanted to avoid seeing him? Or . . .what if something had happened to her?? His heart thudded in his chest. He felt it with almost absolute certainty, something _had _happened to her. He fought another wave of nausea and steadied his shaking legs. Entering the kitchen, he noticed a note taped to the refrigerator. It was from her. THANK GOD.

_J – _

_I'm so sorry, but I have to work this morning. I should be _[it looked like she'd scratched out the word "home"]_ back around lunchtime. Please, please, don't hesitate to call if you need ANYTHING _[underlined three times]_._

_The coffee is all ready to go. Just hit the ON button. There's a bagel in the toaster, and cream cheese in the fridge._

_See you soon _

_-- J_

_PS. If "hair of the dog" is your thing, Scotch is in the liquor cabinet._

At least he thought that's what the note said. Good grief, she had miserable handwriting.

Phew. Why had he jumped to such crazy assumptions that something was wrong? He read through the note again. He pushed the on button on the coffee maker. Sure enough, already-sliced bagel halves were waiting in the toaster. He pushed down the toaster level. He couldn't have done anything too stupid, right? Not if she cared enough to get coffee and bagels ready. Not if she was making jokes about hangover cures.

He choked down the bagel, sipped his coffee, and read and re-read her note. What was this "_Please, please, don't hesitate to call if you need ANYTHING_"? What had happened? With the coffee and bagel in his stomach, he felt up to showering, and stood under the hot steam asking himself "what happened?" over and over.

He remembered drinking in the L.A. airport. He remembered his flight being called. He stood at the gate watching fellow travelers board the plane. The line dwindled to a few stragglers. He halfway expected that the agent taking tickets would notice him standing there and wave him onboard, as though she knew he was booked for that flight. But she didn't, of course. As far as she knew, he had just landed in L.A. or was waiting on the next flight out of that gate. They closed the door to the jetway, and still he waited with the uneasy feeling that someone would know he was supposed to be on the plane. He watched the plane back out and head for the runway.

He remembered going to a different airport bar. He remembered sitting and drinking more. He read his letter again. "_Dear Mr. Sawyer . . _." He berated himself for being such a grade-A pussy. All his life he'd waited for just this opportunity. He could still go to an Oceanic agent, say he'd missed his flight, and book himself on another flight to Australia. He thought liquid courage was the way to go, but with each drink he felt more and more disinclined. What was he supposed to do now? Slink back to the coffee ship with his tail between his legs? Wait for Hibbs to show up and give him the hard sell until he was back on a plane to Australia? Bob didn't expect him back for a few weeks at least. What he wished for more than anything was to go home. Or, more accurately, he wished he had a place to go home to. Was it too much to ask to have a place to go to rest and be accepted for who you were and all you had done? Probably. He stared into the bottom of his empty glass and decided he would go to Miami.

He remembered getting into it with the ticket agent. She certainly smelled the alcohol on him, and he was acting the part of the belligerent drunk. Somehow, though, he managed to convince her to sell him a one-way ticket to Miami.

He remembered keeping a tight rein on his emotions on the flight. He remembered not wanting the flight attendant to realize how drunk he already was. That way she would keep selling him booze.

He remembered debarking in Miami and staring blearily at the information monitors. He remembered desperately trying to match up his flight number with a baggage carousel number. People were streaming past him and still he stared dumbly, swaying at the monitors, in and out of focus. At some point it dawned on him that he hadn't even checked luggage. His duffle was all he had brought with him. And then it dawned on him that he couldn't let her see him like this. He was an absolute mess. He would take a cab to a hotel. He'd go to see her the next day when he was sober and cleaned up. He could not let her see him like this.

"She can't see me like this." That was the absolute last thing he remembered. How had he ended up here? And what irreparable damage had he done to her opinion of him?

He was out of the shower now, rubbing steam from the mirror. He stared at himself. His eyes were bloodshot. He was clean, but even so, he looked mean, scary, dangerous. He sighed deeply.

Dressed again, he sat heavily on the couch. He dozed again but was awakened by the sound of the front door opening. He looked up to see Juliet taking off a blue parka and shaking water from it. He realized that the bright sunlight of earlier that morning had been replaced by a steady downpour of rain. Under her parka she was wearing blue jeans and a green hospital scrub top, and her hair, damp, was pulled back into a ponytail. It's what she'd been wearing the first afternoon he spent here. She noticed him now and smiled at him, and he thought he'd never seen a better sight.

She approached, and sat on the opposite end of the couch. "You feel OK?" she asked.

"I've felt better," he answered.

She nodded and stared at him intently. He was anxious now about what came next. Should he start with his burning curiosity – how, when, why did he get here? Or should he just start by apologizing for whatever lame ass stunts he'd pulled when he was too drunk to know better? Best to let her speak first. He kept quiet, but she continued to stare at him expectantly. He knew there was no way to beat her in a staring contest or in a "let's see who can stay quiet longest" contest. He was going to have to go first, so he went for light-hearted.

"How's Horace been treatin' ya?"

Less than a week ago, but before Hibbs had returned to make his life a living hell, they'd been on the phone talking about baby names. It seemed a lifetime ago. The conversation didn't get very far before the topic turned humorous, and the goal became choosing the most ridiculous name. Within reason – the rules were that it had to be an actual, honest-to-god name. He'd come up with Horace; she'd argued for Bernard. But he wore her down. And for the few days between that conversation and the day Hibbs walked back into the coffee shop, they'd had a goofy name for the little guy.

"Horace keeps me up nights. I guess it runs in the family." The last statement was rather pointed. So much for light-hearted.

"What's going on, James?" she asked, but he was relieved at least to see that her face seemed filled with concern, not anger.

"How did I get here?" he answered her question with a question of his own.

"I asked first."

"Well," he started. "I think – I hope – your answer is a lot shorter than mine."

"OK," she said. "You threw your phone at a bartender. He used it to find my number. I drove down there and picked you up." She paused and looked intently at him. "Do you remember anything?"

"The last thing I remember is the Miami airport. Did I say anything stupid?"

She blushed, shook her head "no," and crossed her arms over her chest. He gathered that he had said something stupid, but maybe not irredeemably so. "I apologize," he said, hoping that would cover it.

"Your turn."

He hardly knew where to begin. He started and stopped a handful of times. Finally, he began, tentatively, for real. "You remember the first afternoon I spent here?" She stared back at him. Yes, duh, of course she did. He continued, "Do you remember that I told you about what I did and how I don't tell women my real name but use a nickname instead?"

"Sawyer," she answered.

"Yeah. Remember how I said it was a long sad story? And I said I would tell it to you or we could . . . you know. . ." he trailed off hoping she'd nod, fill in the blanks. She wasn't letting him off the hook so easy. He picked up again, "or we could have sex again instead?"

He closed his eyes and berated himself internally. OF COURSE she remembered all that, you fucking greaseball. That was when little Horace got made wasn't it? And if he had just manned up and told her the truth then, she could have realized what a fucked-up piece of shit his life was, booted him out the door, and never dealt with him again. Instead, he did the cowardly thing, the thing that felt good at the moment, knocked her up, and now this beautiful, amazing, intelligent woman was stuck with dragging his sorry ass out of bars and going off to work with a hungover dickhead in her bed.

"I remember," she answered simply.

"I should have just told you then. If I had known . . ." he trailed off, gesturing at the basketball under her shirt. "God, I'm so sorry," he begged.

"I'm not sorry," she said, simply and directly.

It seemed impossible to believe, but he looked at her and knew she wasn't lying. It gave him the courage to go on.

"I was going to Australia to kill a man," he started and launched into the whole, long, sad tale. Who Mr. Sawyer was, and what he had done to his family. Hearing the gunshots when his mother was killed and his father took his own life. The time he spent hiding under the bed, too scared to come out, with his father's corpse in touching distance. The rest of his miserable childhood. His adult years of crime, his constant search for the man who'd made his life a living hell. He had reached the end of his story of woe, but returned to the one thing that had always, always reminded him of what a coward he had forever been.

"The last thing she ever said to me was 'I love you.' She _knew_ she was gonna die, but she saved me instead, and I couldn't do nothin' about it."

Juliet spoke for the first time since his story began. "My God, James, how can you blame yourself? You were _eight_. What were you supposed to do??"

"The last thing I ever heard her say . . . 'I love you,' I shoulda done something," and then he broke down sobbing.

Juliet moved from her end of the couch, and wrapped him in as tight a hug as she could manage. He smiled between sobs to feel Horace against his side, keeping her from hugging him closer.

They stayed like that for a long, long while. He'd told her everything, and yet, she hadn't run off in horror. She was still here. What sort of deal had he made with the devil to deserve this? He realized then that she was asleep. He wondered how late he'd kept her up last night, and how early she'd had to get up this morning.

"Hey," he whispered, sitting her upright. "Let's go to bed."

"James, I can't . . .I'm so exhausted."

He chuckled. "Not what I meant. It's pouring rain. Perfect Saturday afternoon for a long nap." He stood up, lifted her from the couch, and carried her to bed. Despite sleeping past 11 himself, he, too, was utterly exhausted. They were both asleep in minutes.

They slept away the entire afternoon. When he woke close to 5, he was famished. All day, he'd eaten only a bagel. She stirred. "You hungry?" he asked her. "Always," she answered.

She insisted for some reason on scrambled eggs, and he was happy to oblige. That was one he could handle no problem. He told her he'd take care of it, but she sat at the counter, telling him where to find the cooking oil, the spatulas, the frying pan. He put on some bacon and toast. She eyed him curiously the whole time.

Finally she spoke. "You never told me who fell."

"Whaddaya mean?"

"Last night. You were going on and on about holding on, not letting go, not falling. I figured someone had fallen."

He couldn't remember saying any of that. He racked his brain. He couldn't think of any such incident. Besides, he'd never been close enough to anyone to really care if they fell. So, they broke a few bones . . . they'd get a temporary handicap pass and all the good parking spots.

She looked serious. "It seemed so real. It scared me. You don't know what I'm talking about? You never watched anyone fall?"

"You don't think watching your folks die is tragedy enough? You gotta add in somebody falling to their death?"

"I didn't say they _died_. Sheesh. You're such a drama queen," she smiled at him.

Bacon and eggs were all done. They devoured their evening breakfast in silence.

He cleared his throat. "Would you mind if I stuck around for a little bit? They don't expect me at the coffee shop for a few weeks at least. I just . . . can I stay here with you?"

"Of course you can." she answered. "You'll clean the kitchen, right?" she asked, gesturing at the dirty dishes in front of them. "Clean the kitchen, and you can stay for as long as you like." She kissed him on the cheek, stood up and headed back for the couch.

He felt such intense happiness and relief. He would stay here. This must be what it felt like to have a home. He could rest here. Recover. "I love you," he called to her.

"I love you, too," she smiled and winked at him.

Well, that was easy, he thought and began stacking dishes in the sink.

**It's been great doing a bunch of updates in a row, but now I'm back on deadline to write some of the boring stuff that actually pays the bills. So, I tried to leave off with less of a "cliffhanger," in case I don't get back to this real soon. But don't worry, it's not the end!**


	18. Memories

**OK, phew! What a week. As the old saying goes, "Dental materials research won't just write itself." Wish it did. Nine out of ten dentists agree. Really, they do. They don't just pull those numbers on toothbrush commercials out of thin air. But who cares, right? If you cared about dental materials research, you wouldn't be reading this. So, on (and on and on and on) we go. Not kidding – this is the longest chapter yet, which some of you seem to like – so this is just me testing your limits.**

"Now if everyone will turn to Tab G, where we discuss this more fully."

Everyone in the conference room obediently turned to Tab G in their three-ring binders.

"The important part here is the first bit on page 2," continued the hospital administrator running the meeting. "As you see here, '_Adjusted EBITDA does not reflect any cash requirements for the replacement of the assets being depreciated and amortized, which assets will often have to be replaced in the future_.' Does anyone understand why that's so important to what we're doing here today?"

Silence. Uncomfortable shifting in chairs.

"Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?" Juliet muttered to the renal specialist on her right. He stared at her uncomprehendingly. Wah wah. Her joke fell flat. The silence in the conference room was palpably uncomfortable. The administrator launched in to a lesson on amortized assets and how that affected payouts for purchases on high-value items.

Why in the world had she volunteered to be her department rep to the hospital's budget committee? Because she was taking off all spring semester and only working part time next summer and felt guilty about it, that's why. So now, every other week, she had to sit in these interminable meetings, and why did it matter what she knew about amortized assets? The worst part was, she couldn't even go home and complain about it to James. He wouldn't sympathize. He would fuss at her, as he'd done before, for volunteering for _more_ work, when she should be doing _less_. She could imagine the conversation they'd have in its entirety. He'd say "it's your own damn fault. I told you it was dumb to volunteer for more work. If you'd of just listened to me, you wouldn't be in this mess." And then she would reply that if it weren't for him, she wouldn't be taking all spring and most of the summer off work, and therefore wouldn't have felt guilty enough to volunteer for the damn committee in the first place.

Today was Wednesday. Friday would mark the two-week anniversary of retrieving him from Mikey's Break Room. They'd been a very, very nice two weeks, and she wondered how much longer he'd stay. She knew if she asked, he'd assume she was hinting around that she wanted him to leave. It seemed that as much as she tried to get him to understand that she really, really liked having him around, he still never quite believed it.

Truth be told, she didn't quite believe it, either. Was she just being selfish? When she'd said he could stay if he cleaned the kitchen, she'd meant it as a joke, but it seemed as though he felt the need to "earn his keep," so most days she came home to find some project completed. He'd fixed a leaky faucet. After she'd explained her filing system, he finished up the home office organization project. Last Friday she got home to find surround sound installed and James setting up a "Friday Night Film Fest." A bunch of his favorite 70s movies, but he'd included _Grease_, so she couldn't complain. Yesterday he'd put together the crib.

"Just don't want you to think I'm a lazy bum sittin' on my ass all day."

And he _did_ clean the kitchen. And cooked sometimes. And gave out backrubs and footrubs without her having to ask. Is that why she liked having him around? Otherwise it didn't quite add up to 100%. He was a criminal with a daughter he'd never seen. His cover story was "part owner in a coffee shop" but that investment money was sure to be ill-gained. He had no education, a minimum wage job, and a potty mouth. So what was it? Did she just like having someone wait on her hand and foot? Because he kind of did. And it was more than kind of nice. _Was she just being selfish?_

No, it was definitely more than that. He was genuinely interested in what she did, and "educated" or not, he was more than bright enough to be a good sounding board. He liked to just sit and read, and she didn't have to talk to him or entertain him if she didn't want to. He had the same sense of humor. _He_ would have laughed at the Ferris Bueller joke, she was sure of it. He had a wide range of interests, and always seemed interested in learning more.

Plus, there was the constant, inescapable feeling that she knew him from somewhere before. A turn of phrase that she recognized as uniquely his. The way he walked around the apartment with a dish towel slung over his shoulder even hours after he finished the dishes. The way he tied his shoes so neatly and meticulously. . .All so familiar. She just knew that one of these days they were going to discover that they'd gone to summer camp together, and she'd had a massive crush on him. Or that he'd waited tables at her favorite hole-in-the-wall pizza parlor from her undergrad days. Or that he was one of the hundreds of men she'd dutifully taken blood samples and demographic information from when she was a lowly research assistant working on her PhD. Something. One of these days, she'd figure it out.

She knew he was too hard on himself and took on burdens that weren't his to take on. But wasn't she stuck in this everlasting budget meeting for just that very reason? Being hard on yourself and taking on burdens not your own? Why, that was her specialty! Besides, he had burdens she couldn't imagine. When he'd told her about his parents and his past, her heart broke into about a million little pieces. And that he thought he could have done something to stop it? It just killed her to think of the weight of the guilt he must carry around.

She had been 25 when her mom died. Out of the blue, Mom had a stroke. . . only 55 years old, and . . . just like that, she was gone. All of a sudden, Juliet had a newfound appreciation for the fragility of life, and how short our time here really is. And even though she'd said "no" before, she decided that "yes" (yes!) she would marry Edmund, because life was just too short to bother with all those niggling doubts about his wandering eye and the fact that aside from shared research interests they didn't really have anything in common. Or that Rachel always called him "Edmund Jerk." (Ten years on and she still called him that – Juliet considered it more than a slight improvement that Rachel called James "Sexy Mystery Man.")

Losing a parent – suddenly and unexpectedly – can make you do some very stupid things. Losing both? Violently? While you sat and listened? And you were only _eight_? She felt tears spring to her eyes right here in the budget committee meeting. How embarrassing. She quickly wiped her eyes. No one would notice.

She glanced over to Dr. Humorless Renal Specialist, MD, and saw that his binder was now open to "Tab C." She, too, turned to Tab C. Dr. Humorless Renal Specialist, MD had neatly highlighted and marked the page he was looking at. That had been their "homework" two weeks ago. They were supposed to hack through some dense spreadsheet and highlight all items applicable to their departments. She'd had such good intentions. She'd even taken the binder home and sat in her most comfy chair and pulled out her highlighter, and opened to the Excel spreadsheet . . . and started to nod off. To keep herself awake she'd thought back to the time she and James had started off cuddling in that very comfy chair, and then one thing lead to another and . . .

"Dr. Burke?" It was the man running the meeting.

Uh Oh. Caught daydreaming. Had he asked her something? Was he waiting on her reply? Would he find out she wasn't taking this budget committee as seriously as she should? Maybe she _should_ just pawn it off on someone else. . .

"Lights please?"

Oh. Right. PowerPoint slides. And she was closest to the light switch. No problem. The lights dimmed, and up came the first slide. Under the cover of darkness, she went right back to daydreaming.

She wondered what project James was up to today. Golf with her dad? He'd been twice already. The first time, he'd been a nervous wreck. "What if he's just buttering me up? Get me out there, then brain me with a 5-iron or something?" But he'd actually had a decent time (or so he said), and was invited for a second outing. She couldn't be more pleased that he would spend time with her dad. Or that her dad would take James golfing. Of course, she ended up suffering the consequences. The night after his first golf outing, he'd snuggled up behind her in bed, spooning her, and begun nibbling on her neck and shoulders. Very nice.

"Twenty two thousand megawatts," he murmured.

"What?"

He'd now reached around to cup her breasts in his hands. "That's how much energy the Three Gorges Dam will produce when construction is complete."

She sat up, pushing him off her. He was laughing hysterically.

"What? That don't turn you on? All that rushing water? All that _power_?" he waggled his eyebrows

"Ew. No. For one thing, no, I don't find hydroelectric dams a turn-on. And for another thing, I know you just got all that information from my dad. _So_ not a turn-on."

He was still laughing. That – his laughing – now _that_ was a turn on. It was the first real laugh she'd heard from him since he'd been here. Well, two could play this game. Her dad had bent her ear more than a time or two about that blasted Three Gorges Dam.

"You know," she started, trying for breathy and seductive, "Sun-Yat Sen first came up with the idea for the Three Gorges Dam all the way back in 1919." Breathy and seductive hadn't lasted past the word "idea," and she had to choke back giggles to get the rest of the sentence out.

He laughed more, and it was a grand sight to see. "Mmmmm . . ." he finally said when he could get the words out. He started kissing her. God, he was good. "I love it when you talk hydroelectricity to me," he whispered.

"Shut up about the hydroelectricity. Just kiss me," she'd said. And he did and he'd reached his hand under her shirt and. . .

"Dr. Burke? Lights please."

Well. It seemed that she'd gained the power to control this lecture just by thinking about sex. She dutifully turned on the conference room lights.

"Let's look under Tab F, everyone" droned the administrator. You know, this morning, James had gotten in the shower with her. Maybe if she thought about that enough, the lecture would just end. Probably not – things hadn't gotten all that far in the shower. James usually wasn't awake before she left, so she'd been surprised to see him peek his head in this morning. He'd joined her, and one thing was leading to another when she slipped. Just a little bit. It was slippery in there, after all, and she wasn't quite adjusted to her new center of gravity. You could hardly even call it a slip – more like that rush of adrenaline you get when you miss the last step, but land completely upright, if loudly, at the bottom of the staircase. But James had noticed and freaked out. "This was a stupid idea, you could have really hurt yourself, what if you had fallen," and on and on and on.

He got weird that way sometimes. Overreacting when she slightly burned her fingers lighting a candle. "You have to be more careful! Fire is dangerous!" Flipping out the day she got home later than she said she would. He hadn't been angry, just always more worried than the situation called for. It was kind of sweet and endearing, but she also wished he'd just chill out.

"So, what we're looking for here is 3.2% cuts from all office supply distributors . . ."

The meeting was not in danger of wrapping up anytime soon. So much for her ability to control it with her mind. She remembered her department chair's explicit instructions. "All I care about is we don't lose funding for the 4-D ultrasound. Fight for that tooth and nail. Otherwise, I don't give a rat's ass what they do in the budget committee." Easy for him to say. He wasn't the one having to sit through these meetings just waiting, waiting, waiting for the chance to lobby for the equipment they needed.

Her pager buzzed. It was the number to her department. Excellent. A chance to take a break from the meeting. She mumbled her apologies, then stepped to the phone just outside the door to the conference room.

Nellie, one of the nurses, picked up on the other end.

"You paged me?" Juliet asked.

"Yeah, they need you down in the ER."

"I'm not covering the ER today," she said.

"Dr. Rouse is, but he's with another emergency patient," said Nellie. "Thought you might take this one as an excuse to get out of the budget meeting."

She didn't need to be asked twice, and was off to the ER. Maybe some out-of-towner gone into labor. Or, for irony's sake, some poor pregnant lady took a slip in the shower and was brought in just in case. If so, she would be sure _not_ to tell James. No sense getting him all spun up again. She wondered how long she could draw out her visit to the ER. Long enough to be sure that the budget meeting was over. That was the goal.

She headed straight for the admit desk. "I'm from OB. Someone needs me?"

She was whisked into a trauma room and greeted by the attending physician.

The patient, unconscious and covered in blood, had been in a car accident. She was 23 weeks pregnant. Massive internal bleeding. The ER docs insisted a C-section was needed. Anything else they needed to do, any other medicine they planned to give her, would harm the baby. It was the only way. At some point, Dr. Dave Dyson, one of her best friends, and the best neonatologist on staff, had appeared at her elbow. He looked at her and shook his head. He knew, as she did, that 23 weeks was just too early. It was only the second trimester. There was a less than 50% chance that baby would survive.

"Well, if you don't do it, we can't save her, and neither one of them will survive," insisted the ER doc, and there wasn't much arguing with that.

Dave waited with his team of NICU nurses while she sliced the poor woman's belly open. Blood was already everywhere, so the new blood that gushed out hardly made a difference. In her department, they called it an "emergency C-section" if it wasn't scheduled. But generally, there was nothing "emergency" about it. Folks were calm, the procedure was routine, there was always blood, but not in puddles halfway up your Crocs. And in the end, things always worked out. Crying babies, crying moms, crying dads. Happiness all around. At least that had always been her experience. This was something new entirely.

The baby, a boy, was out, into Dave's hands and whisked from the room in an instant. She couldn't help but think of baby Horace, just a few weeks older than the tiny, scrawny little baby boy who had so little hopes of surviving. She needed to concentrate. Juliet worked on suturing the uterus, but blood was everywhere. The ER docs scurried in and out and round and about in their own well-rehearsed dance. They ordered more blood, they pumped medicine in, and she finished her suturing. Her work here was done. But other blood was coming from other places, and the monitors were going bonkers. "Clear!" she heard the attending physician shout, and she realized they were using the defibrillator. To her, all the movements seemed so slow, so deliberate, as if this were all taking place under water. Even the voices seemed odd, distorted. Time passed, but who could say how much?

"Time of death 4:23 PM," she heard loudly and clearly. In a daze, she mimicked the actions of everyone else in the room, removing her gown and mask and gloves. They stepped outside. Dave , the neonatologist, was already waiting. As if his sad eyes didn't already answer their unasked question, he shook his head. So, the baby was gone, too.

"Husband's in here," the ER attending gestured towards a waiting room. "I'll do the talking, but I need you two to come in with me." And so she and Dave followed and listened as he said his comforting, but rote and rehearsed, speech. "Despite the best medical efforts," "massive internal bleeding," "never regained consciousness," penetrated the fog. Although "fog" wouldn't be a good way to describe what was going on in her head. It was more like an intense buzzing and everything seemed to be too bright. She rubbed her temples in an effort to make it all stop.

She watched the husband collapse, and she off-handedly wondered how many times a day the ER doc had to do this. She was really rather lucky. She'd been practicing at the hospital for the past three years. Ever since she turned down that Mittelos job and realized that working with Ed was a ridiculous and self-defeating dead end. Three years and she'd never had to deal with the death of a patient.

But the buzzing intensified and the lights grew brighter and she just _remembered_. But there was nothing to remember -- she'd never done this before. So maybe she was just imagining, but it wasn't imagination. It was memory. It absolutely was memory. She had done this before – more than once -- and it was all so very clear. The women were into their second trimester and she couldn't save them and she couldn't save the babies and even worse, she _knew_ them. They weren't random women wheeled into the ER after a car wreck. It was all so very, very real.

"OK, thanks guys." It was the ER doc. The husband had gone. Where? When? She must have missed that part. "We'll send the charts up for your verification, but that's all we need from you." She and Dave trudged back to the elevator. When it stopped at the 4th floor, she got out. Dave nodded in a saddened gesture of unity. "You OK, Jules?" he asked. He, too, had just lost a patient. He must have figured that was what was bothering her. She'd lost a patient. But it was oh so much more than that. "Fine," she answered, probably not very convincingly.

She plodded to her office in a daze. "Budget meeting that great, Dr. B?" one of the residents asked as he passed by, but she didn't respond. She closed her office door and sat at her desk chair. She rested her face in her hands and tried to make it all go away. But it wouldn't go away, and the memories, if that's what they were, grew more and more distinct. She remembered separate instances. Different women, different husbands, different times of day, but the outcome was always the same. This woman had red hair, and this one blonde, and this one short. This one was named Sabine, and she was her friend.

She had to make it stop. It was insane. All of it – maybe this was a bad dream. She'd wake up soon. Surely. She had no more obligations today. Because, yeah, even when she was going absolutely batshit crazy, she just had to worry about what _obligations_ she might have. Someone she might let down. But her schedule was free and clear and she practically fled the building. The light outside was blindingly white and the buzzing started back up. Where was she going? What good would it do?

"Whoah, there." Someone grabbed the back of her shirt and held her in place on the sidewalk. "Didn't think you saw that bus." She came to her senses as a city bush wooshed past on the street. The Good Samaritan who'd kept her on the curb went ahead and crossed the street. And Juliet was rooted to the spot. The first piece of the puzzle snapped into place. Edmund had been hit by a bus. He had been. And she'd taken that job with Mittelos Bioscience. That's where all this happened.

Except, no. She hadn't taken the job. She'd met with their representative. She even _joked_ about Edmund getting hit by a bus. But she hadn't taken the job. She'd considered it seriously, yes, but she turned it down. She remembered that, too. And Edmund hadn't been hit by a bus. She'd seen him just last week when she and James had been out to dinner. That had been an event that teetered between disaster and grand entertainment.

She headed to the best place to clear her head. Always her fallback – the beach. She sat and watched the waves roll in, mesmerized. James would worry if she didn't get back soon. But wouldn't he be more worried if she showed up like this? "Good news, honey! I'm crazy!"

The waves rolled in endlessly, and more pieces filled out the puzzle. There had been a beach at Mittelos, too. Lots of them. It was an island. There were so many blanks. The patients she saw all very clearly. But other bits were so fuzzy. She vaguely remembered her boss and a fear of him. She kept working there because she was afraid of him?

Beachgoers streamed by in bikinis and swim trunks. There was a good bit of blood on the lower right hem of her pants. She reached behind her neck and was somewhat surprised to find a stethoscope still there. She surely looked a sight -- the crazy, bloody lady in scrubs staring at the ocean. Yes, that was it. Crazy. Crazy, crazy, crazy. This would pass. This wasn't happening, and if it kept happening, she'd ignore it. Or go to therapy – or something.

She took a deep breath, nodded to herself and stood up. She'd go home, pretend nothing had happened, and when James noticed she wasn't quite right, she'd blame it on a bad day. It would all go away. It had to.

She rode home with the window cranked all the way down. The wind blew violently into her face, and she hoped it would make the false memories stop. But of course it didn't. Crazy, crazy, crazy. This would pass. It had to. She parked. She tried desperately to put on a "no problem" face. James would know right away that something was wrong, but she had to try. He'd probably already be on pins and needles since she was so late getting home.

She entered the apartment. He was on the couch, watching CNN. The skies were just beginning to darken, but he hadn't switched on any lights. He didn't acknowledge her entrance but just kept watching the TV. This was unexpected. Maybe she and her crazy could slip by him unnoticed. She was curious, though. What had him so transfixed?

She walked to stand beside him. He didn't look at her, still didn't seem to notice she was there. It was a plane crash. He was watching news reports of a plane crash. Although he'd still done nothing to acknowledge her presence, he spoke to her now.

"I think I was supposed to be on that plane." She read the crawl on the bottom of the screen. It was a Sydney-to-Los Angeles flight. Oceanic 815.

She felt sick. If he had gone to Australia, he would have been coming back on this flight. He'd be dead. "Are you sure?" she asked. "Do you have your original itinerary?"

"Wouldn't matter," he answered, a dull monotone. "I don't mean I was scheduled for it. I mean I actually was on it. I remember it. It's like a whole 'nother set of memories. 'Cept they ain't that clear." His eyes had never once left the TV screen. "You think I'm crazy, don't you?"

**Little favor --- if you don't mind, that is. If you've been reading this story, do you mind letting me know your favorite part? Or least favorite? Or both? In a review or even PM, if reviewing isn't your thing. I'm trying to figure some things out/what works/what doesn't work. I have another story on here, but am trying to decide if I can or should write any others (if I get any ideas, that is) and am sort of at a loss as to what's good, what's not, etc. Thanks! And as always, thanks for reading. **


	19. Breaking News

**First, thanks SO MUCH everyone for encouraging words and reviews, comments, etc. Thank you. I can't say enough, so since I tend to be long-winded, will leave it at that. Some little germs of ideas percolating, and maybe somewhat incorporated into this chapter. This one turned out to be more "fillery" than I'd thought I'd be doing at this stage of the game, but I hope it's enjoyable anyway.**

He always woke up when she got out of bed in the morning. How could he not? They usually slept all wrapped up in each other. He'd never thought it was a comfortable way to sleep, but lately, it was the only way that felt secure. He got so strangely uneasy around her sometimes. It was best when he could touch her, feel that, yes, she was really there, no worries. Sometimes at night, reading on the couch, he'd just reach out to give her a footrub or backrub. Just to feel her, solidly, really and truly there.

So, yes, he noticed when she got out of bed. But she always went right off to the shower, and the white noise of the running water usually put him back to sleep, and if that didn't, the sound of her blow-drying her hair did.

But on this late September morning, he hadn't been able to go back to sleep. He heard the shower start. She wouldn't get in right away. She'd wait for the bathroom to get steamy before getting in the shower. He felt uneasy and wide awake. The sound of running water wasn't going to put him back to sleep. Should he just get up? As expected, he heard the shower door open and close. What were you supposed to do this early in the morning when you didn't have anywhere you needed to be? Maybe he'd get up and fix breakfast.

So, he got up. He'd ask her what she wanted. Bagel? Toast? Eggs? Bacon? All of the above? You name it. He stepped into the steamy bathroom.

"Hey, I was thinking," he started, sliding open the shower door and peeking his head inside. Hot damn. She was just standing under the water, her face all scrunched up to keep the water out of her eyes, running her hands through her hair. Hot damn. Hot damn. Wait, he said that already, right? Not out loud, he hoped.

She looked surprised to see him, but smiled. "Thinking of what?"

Thinking of what. Yes. Good question. What had he been thinking of? Now she was staring at him. That wide-eyed look he knew meant "your turn to speak." Except now he wasn't thinking about anything except getting in there with her. Screw "your turn to speak." He didn't say anything, instead stripped out of his boxer shorts, and stepped into the shower stall.

"You realize I have to leave in about 45 minutes?" she asked.

"What?" he asked innocently. "I'm just gonna help you wash your hair."

"Sure you are," she giggled.

But he would. He stood behind her, squirted shampoo on his hands, and began running it through her hair. He got it good and lathered up, and could hardly stand the little moans he heard from her from time to time. He knew he had to get it all rinsed out before he could do what he really wanted to do, and if she kept up with those little moans, no way was he getting around to rinsing. And "lather, rinse, _repeat_?" Uh, no. No chance of that. So, in order to ease off just a little bit, he sculpted her soapy hair into a Mohawk. It was a bit long to give the effect properly, but it would have to do. "Turn around, let me see ya," he chuckled. She did, and, yeah, the Mohawk was pretty funny looking. But, hot damn (again), belly and all, she was a lot sexier from the front than from the back. This soap needed to be rinsed out ASAP. "Turn around," he ordered, more firmly, this time. He ran water through her hair as quickly as he could. Once it seemed almost entirely shampoo-free, he set the wet hair over her left shoulder, put his hands on her hips, and began kissing her right shoulder.

"What about conditioner?" she asked.

No time for jokes, he thought, and started kissing her neck.

"If you don't put conditioner in, it will be all tangled."

She wasn't joking? She really expected him to stop what he was doing and **condition** her hair? Was she insane???

"You know, I think it'll be OK to skip this one time." Please, he thought. He could _not_ make it through conditioning.

But she must've thought he was just being playful, because she turned around quickly, and reached for the conditioner in the shower caddy hanging on the shower nozzle. As she did, he heard a loud squeak. Her hand darted out and grabbed his wrist, tightly.

"Whoops. Almost took a tumble!" Her voice was light-hearted. She was still reaching for the conditioner. His heart was in his throat, and if he hadn't been standing in a hot shower, he'd surely be breaking out in a cold sweat. If she'd fallen, it would have been his fault. Couldn't he just keep his hands (and other body parts) to himself for a little bit?

"Care to do the honors?" she was offering the conditioner bottle to him.

"No thanks. I was just leaving." He opened the shower door to step out.

"Are you kidding me?" she asked. "Seriously. We can skip the conditioner if you want. I was just playing around . . . we can skip right to the good part. . ."

"I said I was gonna wash your hair and I did," he said. She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a hand to stop her. "I was being stupid. You coulda fallen!" It came out harsher than he meant, but the whole thing just gave him the heebie jeebies.

"Yeah, but you were there to catch me. Geez. Lighten up."

He wished he could. "I just don't want you to get hurt. I'll go fix some breakfast, OK?"

Why did things like that freak him out so much? Sure, it was normal to worry if she'd fall in the shower, but it wasn't normal for it to make him sick to his stomach. The best he could come up with was that the whole relationship seemed too good to be true. It wasn't supposed to be this easy. Meet someone totally out of your league, and then, immediately, just like that, strike up a relationship with no drama, no playing games. To meet someone and instantly be absolutely comfortable with them. Too good to be true. And, therefore, bound to come crashing in around him at any minute.

She left the apartment at quarter till eight, and he realized he had nothing to do. He usually stayed busy while she was at work. It made him feel like too much of a loser that she'd get up, go off to work, do important things, and he'd just sit on his ass all day. Come to think of it, that probably would have sounded like the perfect set-up to him about a year ago. Now it just creeped him out. He didn't intend to be a freeloader.

What could he do, though? The apartment was clean. He could put some laundry in the wash, but that would take 5 minutes. He'd done a handful of projects over the last week plus – fixed a leaky faucet, organized her office, installed surround sound, put together the crib . . . he was out of projects.

* * *

Too bad Mr. Carlson hadn't asked him to play golf today. Although Sawyer hated golf, it would at least be something to do, and Juliet seemed to like the fact that he was getting along with her dad. And it wasn't all bad. "Call me Greg," Mr. Carlson said to him on the third hole on their first golf outing. Which was gratifying and all, but, well, he felt really weird calling him that. So, he'd spent the rest of that day and _all_ of the next golf trip avoiding calling him _anything_. Juliet had laughed when he told her this.

Sawyer thought the game was boring and hated the hail fellow well met, back slapping camaraderie of all the rich white men golfers. Or he usually did. When they were in the clubhouse after their first 18 holes, Mr. Carlson (errr. . . "Greg") had slapped _him_ on the back, then introduced him thusly, "This young fella here is my new grandson's daddy," and that made him feel about 10 feet tall. OK, the back slapping wasn't _all_ bad.

So, he played golf and listened to endless boring stories of dams and skyscrapers and whatnot. He kissed ass a little, to tell the truth. But even that wasn't so bad. In addition to engineering projects, Mr. Carlson's (screw it, he couldn't call him "Greg") favorite topic to drone on and on about was his daughters. And since half of _that _topic was Sawyer's new favorite topic as well, it turned out they had actually had a good deal to talk about. Or, well, Mr. Carlson did. Sawyer learned that Juliet's adult teeth took forever to come in, and she spent close to two years without any front teeth (and Mr. Carlson pulled a faded old photograph out of his wallet to prove it). He learned that Rachel was something of a wild child, and Juliet was the "good" one – except the time she hotwired a friend's dad's car one summer.

He wished he could contribute more to the conversation, but what could he say? His stories would all be either horribly boring ("Well, last night, she was stuck on the crossword, and I told her that Staubach was the Cowboys' quarterback in '78,") or horribly inappropriate to tell her dad ("Yeah, we can't do it missionary style anymore, but, hey, you'll hear no complaints from me."). So, he just kept his mouth shut, nodded in the right places, and as a reward got to hear that until she was thirteen, Juliet thought that unicorns had actually existed. When he confronted her with that news later that night, her excuse was "I figured they just went extinct -- like the dinosaurs. Come on, how is a unicorn any weirder than a stegosaurus?" She was kind of right.

* * *

But, no golf today. There was a steady downpour anyway, so maybe it was for the best. Sawyer thought maybe he'd go down to the Book Nook later. The used bookstore was a four-block walk. When he'd first gone in there, the faded old man behind the counter gave him the stink-eye. In fact, he had the uncomfortable feeling the older man was closely watching him the whole time he browsed.

But when Sawyer found a handful of "Three Investigators" books, he stopped worrying about the old guy and lost himself in the pages. These were his favorite books as a kid! And here was _The Mystery of Deathtrap Mine_. He remembered this one! The book included a list of other titles in the series. _The Mystery of the Singing Serpent! The Mystery of the Talking Skull! _How could he forget_ The Mystery of the Invisible Dog_? He took the stack of books to the counter, and asked the man if he had other books from the series. And just like that, he won the old guy over. They talked about books for a good long while.

Mac (for that was the old guy's name) apologized for giving him the evil-eye. Mac owned the place and had a problem with shoplifters. "No kidding," thought Sawyer. They had ONE security camera and all sorts of out-of-the-way nooks and hideaways. "If I were running this joint, I'd want a camera here and here . . ." he thought. But it wasn't his concern. What _did_ matter to him was that Mac was going to track down some more Three Investigators books for him. Not three days later, Mac called -- he'd gotten _The Mystery of the Stuttering Parrot _for him_. _

It didn't take Sawyer too long after that to realize that Mac's interest wasn't solely a shared love of books. He had a distinct impression that Mac was flirting with him. He didn't know what to say. What if he was mistaken? He could say, "Look, man, I'm not gay," but if Mac wasn't either, how embarrassing would that be? So, he just played along. Mac was friendly enough, and what harm was it to Sawyer if he Mac liked him that way? Maybe it would keep Juliet on her toes if she knew she had some competition. . . from a grey-haired, skinny old guy who wore argyle sweaters. In September. In _Miami_. He doubted she'd feel threatened.

* * *

So, a trip to the bookstore was in order. But the rain just kept up, and he had no desire to go out in the downpour. Plus, he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling he'd been dealing with since he woke up that morning. His nerves were on edge. He tried reading, but couldn't concentrate. He stared out the windows into the rain. Was it letting up a little bit? Maybe he'd go meet Juliet for lunch. He left a message. You could never get through to her at work – too busy.

He stared at one page in his book for about half an hour, until she called back. "Hey, wanna meet somewhere for lunch?" he asked her.

"I'd love to," she answered, "but I've got to work through lunch today."

She worked too much.

"OK," he replied. "Maybe some other time. You are gonna eat, though, aren't ya? You're not skipping lunch?"

There was a long pause. "No. No, I'm not planning on eating anything. Maybe I neglected to tell you. I've started a hunger strike. I'm protesting the plight of democracy activists in Burma."

He snorted. "Yeah, yeah, smart ass."

"Listen, I need you to promise me. When I get weak and delirious from hunger, do NOT let them force feed me. I've got to stay strong for the cause."

He was still chuckling. "OK, that's enough. Point taken."

"Yes, mom. I'm going to eat lunch. I have that budget meeting all afternoon. I'm going to eat there."

* * *

They hung up shortly thereafter. So much for lunch. Actually, maybe it wasn't such a bad thing. The last time they'd met for a meal turned out to be a disaster. Last Thursday they were going to go for a proper date. Dress up, flowers, nice restaurant, the whole deal. But she'd called from the hospital and was held up at work. Maybe they could just meet at the restaurant? And since he was already dressed and ready to go, he just went on ahead. He'd have a few drinks at the bar while he waited.

The place was nice enough, and he was enjoying his drink and keeping half an eye on the Marlins game playing on the TV over the bar.

"Ah, come on! Why throw a slider to him??? You know he's a low-ball hitter!" whined the man two bar stools over.

Sawyer glanced at him. He immediately knew the type. The kind of scrawny, uncoordinated guy who loved sports, but was never good enough to play. Instead he could recite stat after useless stat. He bet the guy never made it past Little League, but could probably tell you Hank Aaron's lifetime batting average with a man on third base and less than two outs.

"Seriously. He's got to know not to throw Bonds a pitch like that – in this situation??" he was still whining. "Is he talking to me?" thought Sawyer. So, he glanced at the man and gave him a sympathetic nod. Like I even give a shit what pitch he throws to him, he thought. Unfortunately, the nod gave the man an "in." He now thought Sawyer was on his side in the Great "Don't Throw Bonds the Slider" outrage. Because here was another thing he knew about guys like this: they wanted you to think they were cool. They'd spent their teenage years being bullied by guys like Sawyer, and even though they were older and more confident, they still wanted the "cool" guys to like them.

He'd prefer to just sit here and wait and enjoy his drink. But the fellow seemed harmless. "You know the slider's not even his best pitch, right?" he was asking. "Oh yeah, sure," answered Sawyer. Whatever floats your boat, dude.

"What are you drinking?" he gestured at Sawyer's empty glass.

"Scotch."

"Let me get your next one." He gestured to the bartender. "Two MacCutcheons."

"Thanks man," Sawyer began, "but that's a little much. I'm fine, really."

"Hey, don't worry about it," said Mr. Stathead. "Just nice to have someone to enjoy the game with."

Their drinks were set before them. Sawyer took a sip. Man, that was some good stuff. He saw what stats geek was up to. Flash around some big bucks, impress the cool guy at the bar. Well, no skin off his nose, the drink was fantastic, and if he had to put up with a little more of this, it wasn't a horrible trade off. "Ah, come on!" his companion was screaming at the TV as the 3rd baseman booted an easy grounder. "Lowell would have had that no problem."

"Sure," replied Sawyer. "Lowell's got better range." He hoped. He really had no idea what he was talking about.

Eventually, the Marlins got their three outs, and the game went to commercial. Mr. Baseball Encyclopedia spun in his bar stool to face the restaurant entrance and the sidewalk beyond. He wolf whistled. "Tell ya what, man. Best part of this place? The view." He gestured at a clutch of scantily clad women giggling and laughing as they walked by on the sidewalk.

Sawyer didn't bother turning his seat around, but did take a look over his shoulder. "Not bad," he replied. Although they did look a bit cheap. "One of the nice things about Miami," continued Stat Geek. "Loads of pretty women."

Sawyer stole a pointed glance at the guy's wedding ring. "Your wife feel the same way?" he asked.

"Looking's not cheating. Am I right?" and he slapped him on the back. Now _this_ was the kind of back slapping "aren't we dirty dogs" camaraderie he just couldn't stand. "Asshole," Sawyer muttered under his breath, and turned back to the TV over the bar. He faked a deep interest in an athlete's foot commercial. He shouldn't have taken the expensive drink. Now he had to pretend to be friendly with the guy.

The ballgame continued, and Sawyer let his mind wander a bit. A few batters up, a few batters down, and he figured Stat Geek must still be watching the scenery, since he wasn't waxing rhapsodic about pitch selection or baseball strategy, plus from time to time he let out a low whistle.

Stat Head finally spoke again. "Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in," he snorted, in obvious disdain. Ha!, Sawyer thought, anyone who's managed to get on this douchebag's bad side had to be all right.

He turned to see Juliet. How did she know Stat Head?

"And, whoah!" Stat Head just kept right on. "Looks like someone's been busy." He reached out to pat her belly, but she took a step backwards, glaring at him.

Sawyer was livid. "Hey, buddy, back off," he stood up and tightly gripped Stat Head's upper right arm. Stat Head wrenched free from his grasp. "Excuse me. I'm just having a little fun with my ex-wife. _You_ back off."

Sawyer was speechless. Ex? Stat Head was her ex?

Juliet regained her composure first. "James, this is Edmund. Edmund, James," she introduced them half-heartedly. "James, let's go to our table." For the first time, Sawyer noticed the maitre d' hovering over her shoulder.

He followed blindly. Stat Geek called after them. "Wait. Hold up -- you've been waiting for _her_?"

Sawyer turned to give him a good piece of his mind. "Please," he heard Juliet. "Let's just go to our table. Please."

He spent most of the dinner grumbling about Edmund Burke. "I told you he was an asshole," she kept saying.

"Sure, but I thought he was at least good looking. My God, what the hell did you see in him?"

"I don't know. I was really young. Does it really matter?"

It didn't matter, but it sure did bother him. She'd been married to the guy for FIVE YEARS? First off, it made him incredibly jealous that someone would get to spend all that time with her. And second, it made him incredibly angry that someone could spend all that time with her and treat her like shit. And third, it confused him to no end that she'd let him get away with it.

They'd eat in silence for awhile, and then he'd crane his neck around to see if Stat Head was still sitting at the bar. Then he'd grumble some more about what a jerk, what an asshole he was. Then he'd accuse her again.

"I don't get it. What the hell did you see in him?" he asked over and over. And he'd get another version of it doesn't matter, I was really young, blah blah blah blah. Finally at dessert he was back on the topic, and she looked at him. She was clearly dismayed and angry.

"What do you want me to say, James? I have really bad taste in men. Is that what you want to hear?"

That hurt. But that was just it. That was exactly what bothered him so much. She'd made a huge mistake in marrying and staying married to Stat Head. Who's to say she wasn't making a huge mistake now? A bigger one? With him? The waiter came by with the check, and he let her get it. Why not?

They walked back to her apartment in silence. She threw her keys on the counter and stormed off down the hall. He heard the door to her bedroom slam, followed shortly thereafter by the door to the bathroom. So much for a nice, proper night out on the town. He'd not had time to even sit down when she came storming back down the hall.

"I wasted five years . . . more than five years . . . of my life on that bastard. FIVE YEARS! You think I don't beat myself up every day? You think it doesn't piss me off to know I was such a loser? I realize how pathetic I was, OK? The last thing I need is for you to be throwing it in my face."

He didn't know what to say, which was a good thing, because she was still going. "I'm sorry I said I have bad taste in men. I wanted to hurt you."

"I do think you have bad taste in men," he said simply.

"Oh, come off it!" she was still stormy. "So, you've been a grade-A asshole most of your adult life. I've been a pathetic loser. Let's just call it even."

"I don't think you're a pathetic loser," he was confused.

"I'm not anymore," she responded. "And you're not a grade-A asshole, as much as you want me to believe it."

She turned on her heels and was back down the hall to the bedroom. Was he supposed to follow? Was she still mad? He followed. She was undressing and he helped her with the zipper on the back of her dress.

"Our first fight," he said.

"Second," she responded. "We had a fight the night I told you I was pregnant."

"You're keeping score?"

"Just like to point out when you're wrong,"

They'd spent half the night making up. It was so amazing that he decided he might have to pick fights more often.

* * *

So, no meeting her for lunch. Probably not a bad thing. He ate a sandwich. He watched the rain stop and the sun come out. The phone rang, and he about jumped out of his skin. Why was he so uneasy? He let the machine pick up. The drycleaners had found her missing skirt.

He sat on the couch. He tried to read. He fell asleep. His sleep wasn't at all restful and his dreams were fevered and scary and even more unsettling. Had he been stuck in the apartment all day? Should he go get the skirt at the drycleaners? It was after 4. She'd be home soon. Although she had that budget committee. He knew she hated that. She'd probably be in a bad mood. That made two of them.

He turned on the TV. ESPN was playing baseball highlights. Ever since his run-in with Edmund Burke, he couldn't bring himself to watch baseball without getting angry. He flipped to CNN. Senate voting on the new CIA director. Yawn. A breaking news alert. Well, here was something. A plane crash. Huh.

"News out of Australia," "lost ground communications," "Oceanic 815," penetrated the fog. Although "fog" wouldn't be a good way to describe what was going on in his head. It was more like an intense buzzing and everything seemed to be too bright. He leapt up to draw the shades in the room.

He watched an Oceanic spokeswoman give a statement, and he off-handedly wondered if the airlines had a statement already prepared just in case. She kept talking, rote facts about the flight, the number of passengers, a rescue effort.

The buzzing intensified and the lights grew brighter and he just _remembered_. But there was nothing to remember -- he'd done an awful lot of flying, especially lately, but had never even had a particularly rough flight. So maybe he was just imagining, but it wasn't imagination. It was memory. It absolutely was memory. He crashed. On a beach. It was hot, and noisy, and people were screaming and dying. It was all so very, very real.

He sat in a daze. CNN went to commercial. He rested his face in his hands and tried to make it all go away. But it wouldn't go away, and the memories, if that's what they were, grew more and more distinct. An older bald man. A Middle Eastern dude. Someone was sucked into the turbine.

He had to make it stop. It was insane. All of it – maybe this was a bad dream. He'd wake up soon. Surely. The sun was setting, and the light rays penetrated the closed blinds, making the room brighter and the buzzing in his head noisier.

"It'll come back around," he thought he heard on a Firestone tires commercial. "It'll come back around." The first piece of the puzzle snapped into place. He'd killed Frank Duckett. He'd gone to Australia. And Duckett wasn't even the right man.

Except, no. He hadn't gone to Australia. He'd gotten the tickets. He even stood at the gate watching people go. But he hadn't gone. He'd considered it seriously, yes, but he came to Miami instead. He remembered that, too. How couldn't he? It was less than two weeks ago. And he hadn't killed Frank Duckett.

CNN continued its coverage. They didn't have much news. Just a picture of the Pacific Ocean, a computer graphic showing the flight's route and the last reported contact. He looked at the clock. After five. Juliet would be home soon. He needed to get it together.

It had been such an odd day, stuck in this apartment. On edge all day long. Tomorrow would be better. Yes, that was it. Crazy. Crazy, crazy, crazy. This would pass. This wasn't happening, and if it kept happening, he'd just ignore it. He'd pretend nothing had happened, and when Juliet noticed he wasn't quite right, he'd blame it on a bad day. It would all go away. It had to.

He kept watching CNN and hoped the memories would stop. But of course they didn't. Crazy, crazy, crazy. This would pass. It had to.

He heard her enter the apartment. Maybe if he pretended not to notice her, she'd go on by. She would check her phone messages, or look at her mail or change clothes or something. But he heard her walk closer and stand beside him. And he lost all nerve to hide it from her. He didn't want her to think he was a lunatic, but this was too weird, and he needed to talk about it.

"I think I was supposed to be on that plane," he said.

She looked stricken. "Are you sure?" she asked. "Do you have your original itinerary?"

He realized that she thought he meant that his return ticket had been slated for this flight. Truth was, he didn't even get a return ticket. He didn't know how long it was supposed to take him to track down and kill Duckett.

"Wouldn't matter," he answered, a dull monotone. "I don't mean I was scheduled for it. I mean I actually was on it. I remember it. It's like a whole 'nother set of memories. 'Cept they ain't that clear." His eyes had never once left the TV screen. "You think I'm crazy, don't you?"

"No," she answered. "The same thing is happening to me."

**So, did you notice? Yeah, the story didn't move forward AT ALL. In fact, it ends in pretty much the same place as the last chapter. Sorry about that. Basically, I know what's supposed to happen next with the returning memories, etc., but I was having a bit of trouble figuring it out exactly. The story has been so "real world" so far, that the fantastical elements of getting back memories from another life . . . still trying to figure out exactly how to write that. I think I finally do have it figured out, and almost just scrapped this chapter entirely (or mostly), in order to get on with it. But I figured since I'd written it all, I'd just go ahead and post it. So (promise!) next chapter will pick up the pace.**


	20. Why Won't It Stop?

**The somewhat fantastical element I've been struggling with. I'm sort of trying to keep it as non-weird as possible, even though, of course, the situation *is* weird. I should warn that, for the first time in this story, there is one memory that we never saw in the show. So, don't be confused when that part comes up. There will be at least a few more of these as the story goes on. And on, and on, and on . . . and I used to be all apologetic about that, but I've given up that ghost. So, I've written waaaaaaaay many more chapters than I ever imagined. So be it, right?**

So, the same thing was happening to him? Honestly, she couldn't decide if that was better or worse. Maybe it meant she wasn't crazy, but then what _did_ it mean? Maybe being crazy would be better. People had mental breaks _all the time_. There was a whole floor at the hospital devoted to these folks. And while "mental breakdown" wasn't high on the list of things she hoped to be dealing with this autumn, at least there were doctors and scientists and a whole field of medicine devoted to fixing the crazy. On the other hand, as far as she knew, there were no floors of her hospital devoted to "people with two sets of memories," and she knew of no field of medicine studying someone who had A) watched her ex-husband get hit by a bus three years ago and B) saw him alive and well just last week.

Stunned, she sat next to James on the sofa. CNN had gone to commercial. "I ain't kidding, Juliet. Don't make fun."

"I'm not – no, I promise. It's like weird memories that can't be real." He was looking at her through narrowed eyes. He still thought she was mocking him. She continued, "And the light is too bright, and a weird buzzing in my ears . . ." she trailed off.

"Yeah, me too," he said, believing her now. "It's why I got it so dark in here. So, you remember crashing on a plane, too?"

"No, I didn't crash on a plane. Do you remember that job I told you about? The one I almost took three years ago?"

He thought for a moment. "The one that creeped you out?" he eventually asked.

"Yeah. Well, I remember taking it. They hit Edmund with a bus."

He laughed. "They sound like good people!"

"Well, not really . . . or, I don't know . . . I'm not entirely sure . . ." Were they good people? What about all those dead women? What was that all about? "So, you remember crashing on that plane?"

"Yeah, and I shot a polar bear."

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Really. That seems far-fetched."

"More far-fetched than having two sets of memories?" he asked.

They lapsed into silence. "Have you ever done LSD?" she finally asked him.

"What??? No!" he looked hurt at her accusation. "I mean, I've smoked my share of weed . . . what makes you ask that?"

"Maybe this is some kind of LSD flashback or something?" she offered.

"_You've_ done LSD?" he asked

"No. Maybe someone poisoned us."

"That's ridiculous," he scoffed.

"More ridiculous than having two sets of memories?"

CNN came back from commercial break. Some phone interview with an air-safety expert. No new news. Not that it mattered to James, who was staring at the screen and paying her no mind.

She stood up. "I'm going to make some sandwiches." He didn't respond. The anchorwoman was now giving the update for "those who may have missed the news." James stared blankly at the TV screen.

_It's impossible. The mothers keep dying. _

_Then we'll find more mothers. Who knows, maybe there's even one on that plane._

She shuddered. Another memory? She was staring at a TV screen, watching news coverage of this very plane crash . . . She shook her head. "Want a grilled cheese?" she asked James, and all he managed was a nod.

She tried to concentrate on nothing more than the sandwiches. She watched them brown evenly, the cheese oozing out the sides. She could hear the TV in the other room, but tried not to think of it. She tried to think of her mom and summer afternoons, anything that was safe and normal. The sandwiches were done, and she put them on plates. Still thinking of her mom, she cut each sandwich into four neat triangles. Sometimes mom would take little decorative toothpicks . . .

_What's your job, besides making sandwiches? _

_Oh, I didn't make it. I just put the toothpicks in._

Was nothing safe? Was there nothing, not even something as simple as making a sandwich the way her mom used to, that didn't come shrouded in this insanity?

She headed back to the living room. James was leaning forward and watching intently now. "I remember that guy!" he said to her. Passenger names were beginning to be released. Or at least one was . . . Charlie Pace, bassist for Driveshaft. CNN was playing concert and video clips.

"He survived the crash." said James. "I knew him!" He hadn't even noticed the sandwich she'd set on his lap.

Juliet realized now that she really wished it wasn't happening to him, too. She didn't want him to be so dazed and obsessing over some VH1 reject. She wanted him to be laughing at her and telling her she was crazy. She wanted him to hold her and make fun of her and laugh against her neck. It always made her feel better.

"_That's twice now – twice in a week! He comes into the garage stinking drunk and starts putting the moves on me. It's disgusting!"_

"_Can't deny he's a kid-beating sonofabitch. And that bug-eyed bastard kid of his??" James snorted his disgust. "But seems to me that the both of 'em got great taste in women." She was sitting in his lap, and he had his arms around her. His face was nuzzled against her neck and his whiskers tickled. She couldn't believe he'd joke about Ben. She _**really**_ couldn't believe she'd let him get away with it._

"_Well, aren't you going to go kick his ass or something?"_

"_If his ass needed kicking, I'm sure you'd of done it already," he chuckled and started kissing her collar bone. _

James??? She was remembering James? She glanced sideways at him. He still sat entranced, watching Driveshaft's "You All Everybody" video.

"Do you know who Roger Linus is?" she asked.

"Is he part of Driveshaft?" he mumbled.

"No, he's just someone I remembered." James was paying her no attention. This had all reached the realm of 100% absurdity. She wanted to cry. Was nothing sacred? Her mom, James . . . She finished her sandwich. "I'm going to bed," she announced.

"It ain't even 8:30 yet," James objected.

"I don't care. This is a crazy dream, and if it's still happening when I wake up, I'm going to the doctor. Have blood drawn or something."

"You think I'm dreaming too? It ain't a dream . . . I don't know what's going on, but it ain't a dream," he argued.

"No. I refuse to believe it. I refuse to believe there is no reasonable explanation for this."

"But . . ." he protested.

"No buts!" she tried to keep a lid on her fear and anger. "This! This right here is your problem!" She picked up his copy of _The Mystery of the Stuttering Parrot_. "What's going on is real life, not some Three Investigators mystery! If something's wrong with me, I'm not going to ignore it. Good night."

She dropped his book on the couch and headed for the bedroom. She wanted him to follow her, to calm her down. She wanted his arms around her. But CNN was giving some sort of update on that damn plane crash, and he cared more about that than about her. She sighed. Maybe he felt the same way. This was happening to him, and instead of listening to him, instead of giving him a shoulder to cry on, she was yelling at him about his books. Except it wasn't happening to him. No. Couldn't be. This was _her _dream, and she'd wake up tomorrow and it would all be over.

For now, she'd get ready for bed. She undressed and pulled on her favorite, comfy, oversize (although not nearly so oversize anymore) Dan Marino jersey. She tried to keep her mind on the most innocuous, boring things she could think of. Rachel called this morning and left a long voicemail. Julian wanted a dog. "Should we get a dog? What kind of dog? Wouldn't a cat be better? Easier? It's not like he's old enough to take care of it. I'm going to be the one walking it, feeding it. Maybe we should start with a hamster." On and on and on.

_Your sister won't be giving birth in three months, Juliet. She'll be dead before then. Her cancer is back._

She felt like throwing up. She broke out in a cold sweat. Not this, not Rachel too. It seemed so real. Maybe she should call her and check to see that she was OK. But, no. She screwed her eyes shut. She shook her head. No. No, this was not happening. She was going to bed. This was all going to end as soon as she got a good night's sleep. She brushed her teeth. Something boring? Something safe and comforting? She thought of Dad. She thought of the Three Gorges Dam. She thought of engineering and construction projects.

_She was looking at blueprints and engineering diagrams. She was consulting with two men. _

"_Well, if it's flooded then how does it still work?" asked the first man _

_The second answered, "How it still works is irrelevant. The question is, how do we get it to stop working, so we can use the satellite phone. The diagram shows that The Looking Glass is connected to the Island by a cable."_

She broke down into quiet sobs. Nothing. Nothing in her life was free from it. Whatever _it_ was. Not her mom's sandwiches, not Rachel and Julian, not Dad's engineering minutiae, not James's strong and safe arms . . .

She crawled into bed, raised the covers over her head, and cried herself to sleep.

Her sleep was restless and filled with fevered, vivid dreams. More like nightmares. She was trapped, helpless, hopeless, alone . . . The more she dreamed, the more she understood. It felt like learning a new language or like a baby learning to speak for the first time. Her mind started out a blank slate, and none of the new dreams, none of the new _memories_, made any sense. There was no context for them. But each new memory fit neatly into its assigned spot, and slowly but surely, they started to make sense. They started to fit together, and she now understood how each was connected to the next.

_It's OK. You tried. You go ahead and take off. I'll talk to Ben._

That had been Goodwin. Another patient had died, and he was trying to make her feel better.

_You're asking me why? After everything I did to get you here, after everything I've done to keep you here, how can you possibly not understand... that you're mine?_

And that had been Ben. And Goodwin was dead. She was kneeling over his corpse.

_I promised those people that I would get 'em off this island._

That had been Jack. And she had said to him, "Don't bleed to death."

_I'll see ya in a couple hours. _

That had been Jack, too. But she didn't see him in a couple hours. She didn't see him for another three years. And he got some people off the island, but not her. She was still stuck.

_What the hell's she doing here?_

That had been James. Jack had almost convinced her that his people would accept her. Maybe not right away, but they would. In an instant, though, James saw right through her. He knew she was here for no good. Her people had done horrible things to them. She was part of that. She was going to get home, and at this point, it didn't matter what she needed to do to get there. Fine. But, the things she had done, the things she was going to do . . . she was a terrible person. And he knew it.

_What about you? You wanna stay here in Crazytown or help me rescue the geek?_

That was James, too. He didn't hate her anymore. They needed to get through this, they needed to figure out what was happening, how to survive. It didn't matter whether they liked each other, the important thing was they depended on each other.

_Maybe... but who's gonna get my back?_

James, again. He didn't think she was a terrible person. Was he right? As easily as he saw through her and knew she was a danger to him and his people, could he see through her now? Maybe she wasn't a terrible person. He read people unreasonably well, and if he actually wanted her to stick around, maybe, just maybe, it meant there was something good and decent left in her.

_Whatever happens, I got your back, remember? _

She loved him. He knew every single terrible, awful thing about her. And he loved her anyway. He understood those terrible things. He understood how despair and anguish make you do terrible things. And he understood that doing terrible things doesn't make you a terrible person. He held her and he laughed with her and he read with her and he slept with her and he loved her.

_Don't you leave me! __No, you don't let go! _

_Don't let go. No! No, don't let go! _

She sat bolt upright in bed, soaked in sweat. Her heart hammered in her chest. She ran her hands through her hair. She remembered everything.

Her apartment was ghostly quiet, and her bed was empty. Even his pillow was still fluffed, with no dip where he may have rested his head. She leapt from bed and hurried down the hall. The TV was off, and she switched on a table lamp in order to see. He wasn't here. There was really no evidence that he'd _ever_ been here.

Was this real? Were all the memories she just dreamed the real ones? Had she re-set things so that they never met, just like she had said she wanted? How could she have wanted that? Were the last six months the "fake" reality? The long car trip to Miami, their afternoon together after Dad's bypass, the 4th of July picnic at Rachel's, her trips to Houston and Chicago, picking him up at Mikey's Break Room. . . was any of that real?

She looked around the room. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, that provided any solid, concrete proof that he had ever been here. No proof she'd ever met him in this new (old?) reality. He'd left no trace of his presence in her life. Frantic, she took a step toward the kitchen and banged her right foot on the leg of the coffee table. "Sonofabitch!" she wailed, and bent down to rub her toe. But she couldn't bend down and rub her toe – at least not easily. She placed her hands on either side of her belly. This was proof, right? He had been here. He was a part of this reality, too . . . and this baby was the proof of that.

Her heart stuck in her throat, though. Could she be sure? What if everything had changed? Maybe she had never met James. What if she was still married to Ed and just didn't remember it yet? Edmund spent many a night away from her. That's why the apartment was so empty. What if this last six months with James was a cruel dream, and the reality was she was stuck -- again. Stuck waiting for Edmund to walk through that front door. What if this was his baby? She felt sick and hoped against hope that it wasn't so. Sweat broke out on her upper lip, and she felt her legs weaken beneath her.

She sat on the couch, and felt something hard and cold against the underside of her thigh. A book -- _The Mystery of the Stuttering Parrot. _James's book, right? Edmund would never read something so "childish." In fact, she could never recall him reading for pleasure. He'd consider it a waste of time. She grinned through tears at the book's cover of three boys running from a cemetery and the brightly colored parrot sitting on a tombstone. It was James's. He had been here.

"Oh, thank God," she actually said out loud to the empty room. "I think you've just dodged a bullet, little guy." She pretended now to be talking to the baby, masking her self-consciousness over talking to herself.

As her panic subsided, she was able to look around more calmly. She saw the surround sound speakers James had installed, the brighter bulb burning in the table lamp (all his reading gave him headaches, and he'd insisted on brighter lights), two plates of leftover grilled cheese sandwiches on the coffee table. He'd been here, but where was he now, and why was he gone?

Had he remembered _anything_? Maybe not. Maybe he was upset that she'd stormed off to bed without bothering to understand or comfort him. He was off somewhere confused about the new memories starting to form.

Or maybe he'd remembered _something_. Maybe he remembered that he hated her. Maybe he didn't remember enough. And now he thought she had somehow tracked him down and tricked him, trapped him in this relationship. And she and "The Others" were working on a diabolical scheme to torture and humiliate him.

Or maybe he did remember _everything_. Maybe he remembered how insecure and uneasy and untrusting she'd been of his feelings. Maybe he was deeply hurt that she'd had so little faith in him. Or maybe she'd been right to have so little faith. Maybe he remembered everything and _everybody_. Maybe he was off trying to track down someone else.

She dialed his phone, but his voicemail picked up. It wasn't yet 4 in the morning and there was nothing for her to do but sit here and wait. She considered turning on the TV, but that didn't appeal to her. She sat for awhile in silence, but time seemed to come to a dead stop. She picked up _The Mystery of the Stuttering Parrot _again and began to read. Seven missing parrots -- each had a clue from a dead man. Could the boys track down all the parrots? This was fun, and she turned pages eagerly, losing herself in the book.

Time picked up its pace, and she was halfway through the book when she heard her front door open.

**Sorry to leave on a cliffhanger again, but Sawyer's chapter will probably be just as long, and since I have this one done, and don't know when I'll get around to the next one (could be soon, could be not soon), I figured I'd go ahead and put this one up. And, actually, if I don't get to it soon, your feedback on this chapter could be helpful. Did the returning memories make any sense? I think his will come back a little differently, but not quite sure . . .**

**As always, thanks for keeping with it! I appreciate so much everyone's positive words and even more just appreciate y'all sticking it out so far. **


	21. A List of Names

**Eh. Between lack of time, lack of inspiration, and computer snafus, this one was a thorn in my side.**

When she stomped off down the hall to go to bed, he was relieved. The alternative was to sit here all night listening to her try to come up with a logical, reasonable, _scientific_ answer to what was going on. But he didn't need an answer, at least not yet. He didn't need to know _why_, he just wanted to figure out _what's next_.

Seeing Charlie Pace alive and well in years-old concert footage was somehow comforting. He wished he remembered more. Charlie had survived the crash -- that much was certain. Sawyer _did _remember him.

He hoped that every interview with an air-safety expert, with an Oceanic spokesperson, with a music critic reviewing Charlie's career, would somehow reignite another memory, but so far, nothing was coming. CNN was running out of things to say about the crash. He tried other news networks, but there was nothing new to be said. "We'll pass along any updates as we get them," the CNN anchor said. He would have to wait for more information. All the media outlets were moving on to business as usual. Larry King started his nightly interview show.

Sawyer desperately wished to remember more. He was sure if he got more information it would somehow trigger new memories. The crawl running under Larry King didn't help. It told him how many passengers were aboard, it told him the flight number, it told him the flight beginning and end points . . . but none of that helped. So he just sat. On his ass on the couch -- where he'd been all damn day.

Larry King ended, and the anchors came back on for further flight updates. Oceanic Airlines would be releasing a full passenger list once families and next of kin had been identified. "Go online for a list of names as Oceanic releases them to us." That's what he needed – a list. A list of names.

He quietly headed down the hall to the office. He peered into the bedroom, but it was all dark in there. Good. Maybe he'd have it all figured out by the time she woke up in the morning. Then he could explain to her what it was all about, and that it was going to be OK. He hoped. Once he got online, it was no problem to pull up the list – almost 150 names. He printed it out.

He scanned the list quickly. Name after name after name after name. All these poor people. At first he didn't recognize any names except "PACE, CHARLES H." He wondered if he'd ever known these people, or if they were the poor bastards who hadn't survived the crash. He read down the list again. Something on the list triggered a memory.

_I never even knew her last name. __Ana Lucia. _

_It's Cortez. _

_Cortez, there you go. I screwed her. _

He looked at the list in his hand. "CORTEZ, ANA LUCIA" was there, in plain black and white. Had he really? Had he "screwed her"? Yep. He had. He remembered it all very clearly. She'd used him to get the gun he was hiding. And she'd taken that gun . . . and Michael shot her with it. He looked back to the list. There were three Michaels on it. "DAWSON, MICHAEL." That was the one.

And . . . oh, man, he thought. Michael killed Libby, too, didn't he? He desperately searched the list. No Libbies. An Elizabeth. Could it be her? Poor Hurley. The big guy really liked her.

Hurley???? Jesus! He could see him so clearly . . . Jesus! He knew him! He came to the coffee shop! "Jumbotron!" He was the big tipper . . . of course. The memory came flooding back – Hurley was a lottery winner. When had he seen him last? Sawyer hadn't been at the coffee shop in nearly two weeks. Please, please, please don't let Hurley be on this list, he thought. He almost didn't have the nerve to look, but when he finally did, he searched and searched and searched. No Hurley. Thank God. No "REYES, HUGO."

As the relief that Hurley was OK set in, the absurdity of it all struck him. He actually chuckled to himself. "Well whaddaya know? What are the odds?" he thought. He knew someone in _that_ life in _this_ one. He shook his head. Wow. Just so weird. Could there be others? Other people he knew then and now, too? He stared at the list, running his index finger down the list, name by name. None he could recognize. Well, Hugo's name wasn't on this list. Maybe there were others . . .

He tried to remember something concrete and specific. Something about Hurley.

"_Hey! Hey guys, wait up! I'm coming with you guys." It was Hurley._

"_Uh uh, no way. Not a chance."_

"_Come on, I can help. They're my friends too, man. Look, Charlie wouldn't let me go with him, Jack's too busy leading to even talk to me. I just wanna help, please?"_

_But he couldn't let Hurley come. It was too dangerous.__Without guns, it was a suicide mission. If he had to be mean and hurtful to Hurley, so be it. He liked the guy too damned much to put him in danger. Himself? Maybe it would be better if he just died. Go out in a blaze of glory, forget about the terrible things he'd done his whole life, maybe redeem himself a little in the process. _

"For God's sake, Hugo, look at you. You're just gonna get in the way. You wanna get us killed?" He'd pretend not to notice the hurt on Hugo's face. He turned to his hiking companion, "Come on!," and they'd set off.

Who'd he roped into coming with him? No one as good and decent as Hurley. No one he cared about as much as Hurley. He looked at his list of names again. Who on this list had he been willing to sacrifice to his heroic suicide mission? Who had that guy been? No one on the list seemed right. He sat with his head in his hands.

_Hurley was back, somehow, and they were on a beach now. _

_There was a man on the ground. Sawyer held a gun to him. The guy he'd dragged into this suicide mission held a gun on the man as well. It was a guy, right? That he'd hiked to the beach with? Somehow that didn't seem right. But no way he'd have brought a woman to die with him. Use women for sex, take their money, yes, but even __**he**__ had limits. _

"_OK. I give up," the man on the ground said. _

_But he shot him in the gut anyway and said, "That's for taking the kid off the raft." _

_And Hurley, voice of sanity, voice of all that was civilized said, "Dude it was over, he surrendered."_

"_I didn't believe him."_

_And the other guy, now standing across from the dead body, looked at him, shocked. But he didn't say anything. He didn't say "How could you?" he didn't say "You evil bastard!" He just accepted it. __**That's **__why he brought this fellow along. Sometimes you had to do terrible things. This guy got that._

But did it really matter who that guy was? That wasn't what was important. Trying to figure it out was just a way to avoid facing the ugly truth – he'd shot someone in cold blood. His hands shook. He wiped them on his jeans to dry and steady them. This memory, coming on the heels of the memory of killing Frank Duckett . . . it was too much.

The office suddenly seemed too small and stuffy. He returned to the living room and raised the shades he'd lowered earlier in the hopes of shutting out the bright lights. He paced. Out of answers, he turned the TV back on. He sat to watch, but it was well past midnight, and he began to nod off.

In his dream, he saw it all again. "OK. I give up," the man on the ground ! A shot in the gut. The man looked at him with his dying eyes. Sawyer glanced up at the person standing across from him. Juliet.

He sat bolt upright on the sofa. No. Couldn't be. Please, _anyone_ but her. Just a nightmare. He thought back to the earlier memory. Hurley approaching out of the jungle.

"_Hey! Hey guys, wait up! I'm coming with you guys."_

And before that? What happened before that?

"_What the hell you have us breaking all those rocks for anyway?" _

"_We were building a runway." _

"_Runway, for what?" _

"_The aliens."_

Now he just felt sick. This didn't seem any more or less real than the other new memories. It just couldn't be true. But that was unmistakably her. How was "Runway, for what?" "The aliens," any different from this afternoon's "You're not skipping lunch?" "I've started a hunger strike" conversation? Even more than _remembering_ her being there, he _recognized_ her. He recognized that tone of voice, the way she smiled when she knew she'd "gotten" him, the way she walked. . . But he didn't want it to be true. He didn't want _her _to be the person he'd been willing to sacrifice to his suicide mission. He didn't want her to be the person watching him shoot a man who'd surrendered.

He needed it to be someone else. He'd find the right name on his list. He just needed to study the list. His list of names was the key.

_They gave me a list. It had your names on it._

He dropped his list as if it were burning his hands. That's right . . . that was what shooting Ana Lucia and Libby had been all about. They kidnapped him. Jack, Hurley . . . Kate . . . they kidnapped them, too. He remembered kneeling on the dock, gagged, and a bag over his head. He felt, even now, anger boiling and bubbling up from his gut. They had beaten and taunted and threatened him.

What had they done? Sawyer, Jack, Hurley, Kate? How was it their fault their plane crashed where it did? And these people -- they treated them like animals. Hell, they even kept them in animal cages. He clenched and unclenched his fists. He remembered especially the look of despair and rage on Kate's face as those people used him as their punching bag. And shortly thereafter, giving in to what he'd desired from the moment he'd met her . . . God, how could he have ever forgotten that?

He'd tried to escape, but one of them tracked him down, Tasered him, and led him back to his cage. He'd tried to fight back, but one of them had held a gun to Kate and threatened her. He hated them.

He picked up his list again. He looked now for Jack's name. . . Kate's . . . they weren't there. Good.

The buzzing in his ears was back now, though, and revolting as those scenes were, they grew even more revolting. Juliet was the one Tasering him. Juliet was holding a gun on Kate. He ran to the kitchen and vomited in the sink. Running the faucet to wash his sick down the drain, he wiped his face with the cold water.

And another memory. Vomiting in the jungle. _He_ was on the island. _They'd _brought _him_ here. The real Sawyer. He had torn his letter to shreds. He'd mocked him and his mother and . . . he'd taken those damn chains and strangled him to death.

He leaned over the kitchen sink, gripping the counter in both hands. He shook with fear and rage. What if she woke up right now and found him here hunched over the sink? Was this all some kind of game to her? Some kind of trick? What was she up to? Would he be able to restrain himself from taking it all out on her? He would never hit a woman – would he?

The safest thing for now would just be to leave. Taking a bottle of rum from the liquor cabinet, he let himself out, and began walking blindly, aimlessly. Before he knew it, he found himself on the beach. Down the beach, a construction crew, working at night so as not to disrupt daily traffic, hammered on bridge repairs under bright floodlights. He watched the crew move its gear into place. He wasn't close enough to make out the yells of the foreman, but he could hear the steady whine of their equipment. The white noise was somehow as comforting as the waves rolling in. He sat and uncapped his bottle.

Taking a sip, he was sadly reminded of the plane in Cincinnati. "I totally forgot!" she'd said, and pulled a tiny bottle of rum out of the overhead bin. He felt tears form now. Had it all been some kind of game? Those people . . . "The Others" . . . were they behind this? The best thing ever in his life, and it had all been some kind of con? Couldn't say he didn't deserve it. He heard a low rumbling in the sky behind him. Just what he needed. A thunderstorm. He took another sip, and thought about how familiar it had all been. The weird déjà vu these past six months. Even drinking the rum on the plane had been familiar.

The rumbling grew louder. A helicopter sped overhead. Miami LifeFlight on its way to the hospital. He almost choked on his rum, as more memories coalesced. He'd been on a helicopter off the island. Jack, Hurley, Kate (always Jack, Hurley, Kate) had been there, too. And he jumped. Now why the hell had he gone and done that? To make Kate think he was a big damn hero, to spare Hurley the indignity, because what the hell did he have to go back for . . .

And he swam back to the beach, and Juliet was waiting there, with a bottle of rum. That was why it had all seemed so familiar on the plane. It had happened before. He didn't hate her. Somewhere between the Tasering and the rum drinking, he'd stopped hating her. He couldn't say her really _liked_ her, but the sky lit up, and what was it Faraday told them? They were skipping through time?

How long had that been? Days? Weeks? How could you even keep track when day followed night and day again in quick, random succession? By the time it was over, by the time they'd seen untold numbers burn to death, by the time Locke was gone, Charlotte was dead, and Faraday was reduced to a shattered shell, he _needed_ her to stay. He'd had it with the last few days (weeks?) of people he'd come to trust, enjoy, and depend upon exiting his life. He asked (hell, practically begged) her to stay, and she'd said yes. Simple as that.

Sitting on the beach, now, in the present (or whatever "now" was), he began to relax a little bit. Things were beginning to come together, and it wasn't _all_ bad. He remembered enough to start putting two and two together, and three years started unspooling in his brain like an extremely long, detailed movie.

It started as a disaster movie, a plane crash, fires, death, destruction, blood and injury. It became a horror movie, polar bears, mysterious monsters, a child kidnapped off a raft. It became a medical drama, suffering from a gunshot wound, infection, recovery. It shifted to a porn flick, sweaty, dirty sex in animal cages, on the beach. It segued to a buddy comedy, drinking beers and fixing up old vans with the guys. It became an action thriller with beach rescues, exploding houses, jumping from helicopters. It turned into a sci fi drama with time travel, unexplained nosebleeds, 1950s hydrogen bombs.

It began to slow down, and became his favorite thing: a 1970s action caper. Hidden identities, 70s clothes, a rag-tag group of interlopers (the leader, the geek, the hot chick, the Asians . . .). And somewhere in there it became a Katherine Hepburn/Spencer Tracy romantic comedy with the curmudgeonly and emotionally stunted man falling for the wisecracking, standoffish woman.

And then it stopped becoming a movie altogether. It was just his life. A good life, with a job he liked, friends he loved, and a woman he adored. A home. Something he'd wanted all his life. Simple and easy. But different. They were, after all, 30 years behind their times. And they were stuck. No place to go, no life beyond the sonic fence. Hell, no TV. He chuckled at that. "No TV." It had been their mantra.

_They were in bed. She was reading a copy of TIME Magazine. He never bothered to read magazines. For one thing, by the time they came on the sub, they were usually many months out of date, and for another, even if they got them the day after they were published, they were still, to them, 30 YEARS out of date. She, however, felt it was helpful to have an idea what was going on. He was reading a ridiculous romance novel._

_Why had he been reading it? He couldn't quite remember. Probably because he'd read everything else worth reading in the damn compound, and had to wait for the sub for new books. Why had he read everything there was to read? No TV. It was their excuse for everything. _

"_UNO again?" she'd asked only yesterday. "It's not even a two-person game. What's the point of a 'Reverse' card? Come on, we've played UNO for a week straight." _

"_Well, what do you expect when you don't have TV?" _

_Or . . ._

"_It's nearly midnight. Why are you baking cookies?" he'd asked a few weeks back._

"_I can't sleep. What else am I supposed to do? Not like I can watch TV."_

_So, he'd read everything he wanted to read, and was sitting in bed reading about a raffish Duke, a fallen woman with a mysterious past . . . "What's a Viscount?" he asked._

"_I don't know . . . some term of nobility like an Earl or something," she told him._

_Later he asked, "What's whist?"_

"_It's a card game."_

"_Better than UNO?"_

"_I don't know the rules," she said._

"_It might be better than UNO. They play a __**lot**__ of whist."_

"_They didn't have TV," she replied._

_Good point. He laughed. _

_This silly book was really slow going. He flipped through some pages. Why did she read this nonsense? No TV, he answered himself. Weren't there supposed to be 'good parts'? He'd give it 20 more pages. And he was glad he did. Things in the book started to heat up. Except. . ._

"_What's a 'turgid member'?" he asked._

_She lowered her magazine to her lap and stared at him. "Oh, come on," she said. "You really don't know?" He shook his head. _

"_You can't even guess?" she countered, but he still stared at her blankly._

_She rolled her eyes. She set her magazine on the bedside table and scootched over to him. She reached her hand into his boxer shorts._

"_Care to guess now?" she asked._

_He chuckled. "So that's my 'turgid member'?"_

"_Well, it's not 'turgid' yet. Give it a sec . . . there you go."_

_He threw his book to the floor._

"_You really should keep reading. If they're talking about 'turgid members,' that means you're just getting to the good part," she said, but she hadn't taken her hand out of his shorts. "Seriously," she continued. "I'll still be here when you finish the chapter."_

_That was so true. She would be here when he finished the chapter. Hell, she'd be here when he finished the book, and the next book and the next and the next and the next . . . He'd have bet even money that he'd be bored by now. Two years? One woman? No TV? But he wasn't bored. Not even remotely. _

_If she'd still be here when he finished the chapter, the flip side of that coin was that the book would still be here when he'd finished doing what he wanted to do with her. And so he did, and sure enough once they'd finished, the book was still there on the floor. He was a little sweatier and more out of breath than he'd been when he last read a page, but it was still there. She, too, picked up her magazine, to read more about the Republican primaries._

"_Not bad, huh?" he bragged on himself. "Three times in a day!" (they'd both woken up early and had both been home for lunch, so . . .)_

"_Well, what do you expect?" she asked. "I mean, we don't have TV."_

The construction crew on the bridge interrupted his reverie. They'd started up a jackhammer on the bridge itself to go along with some incessant drilling, pounding at one of the bridge stanchions. Even at his distance, the noise hurt his head. And something about the drilling, the pounding . . . his memories became an unspooling movie again. But not any movie genre he could name. More like a bad dream. One of those dreams where you desperately try to keep it all together, but it keeps coming undone. Everything you fix is immediately counteracted by another problem, and the problems pile and pile and pile until they collapse around you and leave everything, your whole life, in a heap of ashes at your feet.

Jack, Hurley, Kate (_always_ Jack, Hurley, Kate) had come back. And Sayid who shot Ben. Juliet couldn't fix him; Jack _wouldn't _fix him. They'd taken the boy to _them_. And Miles didn't erase the tape, and Phil found it. Faraday came back all full of crazy schemes and half-baked plans. Radzinsky beat him senseless, and that bastard Phil had punched Juliet. He physically recoiled at the memory. But they'd been given a way off. . . and then what? Why were they here now? Maybe she knew. She must remember, too. He'd go back and find out.

He stood to go. He heard a shout go up from the construction site. He glanced over to see the crew lowering someone from the bridge onto the stanchion. He turned away and started back to the apartment. But something stopped him cold. He turned back to the activity on the bridge. The drilling and jackhammering was incessant. The man being lowered had chains wrapped around his waist. . . and it all came flooding back.

The sub, Jack's plan, Rose and Bernard, fighting with Jack, and Juliet with some crazy nonsense about looking at Kate? _Looking _at her? What the hell was she talking about? And then there was fighting and shooting, and Jack dropped the bomb. The bomb that was supposed to change everything. Wipe out the last three years. But it didn't go off, and then . . .

He knew what came next. He couldn't bear to think of it. How far was he from the apartment now? He began sprinting back. He kept thinking of the old wives' tale: if you die in your dreams, you're really dead. What if you die in someone else's new set of memories? Huh? What happens then?

He ran faster. What if now that he remembered, she was gone? What if something happened to her while he was out here drinking on the beach? Had he left the front door unlocked? What if someone came in? What if she just died? Or what if she didn't even exist?

His lungs burned and his heart pounded. He could see the apartment. One block to go. He reached the building. Luck was on his side for once -- he didn't have to wait on the elevator. He was able to catch his breath a little bit on the ride up. He reached her floor, sprinted down the hall, and threw open the door.

She was there. Sitting in a bright circle of light on the couch reading a book, chewing on the tip of her left index finger. Of course. It was a habit that for the past six months had seemed so oddly familiar, and now he perfectly understood why.

It's amazing how quickly the brain can work. She'd just had time to look up at him, and he'd already thought about the familiar gesture. He'd already debated whether to grab her by the shoulders and shake sense into her. To ask her what the hell was she thinking? Or whether to run to her and hold her as tightly as humanly possible and never, ever, ever let go. But he'd also already thought, "If she's just sitting there reading, surely she doesn't remember _everything._" And maybe that was for the best. He was dripping sweat and still swallowing air in great big gulps. He didn't want to frighten her.

So he approached casually. She was looking at him warily. He was sure he looked a mess. He sat down next to her, and had already thought of a leading question. He'd figure out exactly what she remembered before he went any further.

But his voice was ragged and his breath was shallow, and he only just managed to swallow a sob before he got the question out.

"Why'd you do it?"

**Wheeee! Another one that leaves off pretty much right after where the last one did. By advancing the plot at this glacial pace, I will just write forever. Thanks again, as always, for all the kind words.**


	22. Supposed to be Together?

**NEW UPDATE: My problems continue. First, if you've already read this chapter and just got another alert that it was posted, my apologies! I don't mean to tick anyone off. But now I have started to hear that it's back down again (the whole story this time), so I am just going to try again. I don't know what's going on. If anyone has any hints or ideas about why it would keep disappearing, PM me or something. So frustrating! Well, this might be my little sign that it is time to get this all wrapped up in a bow and say bye bye to FF. But we will see. Maybe it is just a bad computer weekend.**

**I am having some massive issues trying to get this chapter up and can't figure out why. So, I am trying this one more time. It keeps getting gobbled up by the FanFiction site. Thanks for your patience, and also thanks for warning me all of you with the "Hey! I got an alert but no new chapter!" messages. I would have been completely oblivious (as it shows up just fine on "Live Preview"). And, well, let's see . . . MAYBE third time is a charm. Special thanks to eyeon for thoroughly investigating . . .**

**OK, fair warning: just a big, cheesy ball of fluff ahead (Gross! I'm kind of imagining a ball of cheese with fluff stuck to it -- that's nasty! Even nastier: I don't really have to imagine. Sometimes my son will drop his slimy cheese stick on the floor, and when he picks it up, it's got like cat hairs and stuff stuck on it. Fascinating look into my life, yes I know.). ANYWAY, I'm just saying: if you have sensitive teeth, be prepared for the overly sugary sweetness. I scaled back a wee bit just to prevent an all-out schmaltz fest, but the whole reason I started this story in the first place is that I much prefer schmaltz to tragedy. Sue me!**

"Why'd you do it?"

His chest was heaving. He looked like he was having trouble catching his breath. Sweat ran in rivulets off his temples, off his forehead, on his cheeks.

Do what? She wondered. Why'd she help kidnap him? Why'd she shot Pickett? Why'd she infiltrate their camp? Why'd she stay behind when he asked? Why'd she act the insecure fool when Kate showed up? Why'd she detonate the bomb?

She wanted to ask him "Why'd I do what exactly?" If he didn't remember everything, maybe it was better that way. She could ask him a leading question, and then find out exactly what he knew, what he remembered. Except she didn't ask that question. Instead, she started to laugh.

"What the hell's so damn funny?" he asked, clearly annoyed.

"I know exactly what you're up to, James Ford," she said. "You ask an ambiguous question like that because you don't want to give away everything you know." He started to protest, but she held up a hand to stop him. "Don't even pretend that's not what you're doing. I've known you for more than three years. I know, for instance, that these brighter lights aren't going to help your headaches. I know you need glasses. So, cut the crap. I know good and well what you're up to, because I was going to do the same thing. So let's lay it all on the line. I think I remember everything, but I'll ask anyway. Why'd I do what?"

He swallowed noticeably. Her little speech had given him some time to catch his breath. He was able to answer clearly. "Why'd you let go?"

She winced. She remembered the night not even two weeks ago that now somehow seemed years and years distant. That night in a drunken stupor he'd pleaded with her, made her promise to never let go. Somehow he'd remembered it then, and now they both remembered. Very clearly. She could remember the anguish on his face. It broke her heart to think of it.

_That's_ the pain she wanted to make go away when she'd detonated the bomb. She'd said she wanted to make it so _she_ never had to lose _him_. She wanted to re-set things to save herself from that pain. But by the time she was stuck down there with that bomb, it was his pain she wanted to erase. If she could make it so _he_ never had to lose _her_, then it was worth doing.

That wasn't the question he'd asked though. The question was "Why'd you let go?" and that one had a simple answer.

"Because if I didn't, you'd have fallen in there, too."

He was shaking his head, confusion written all over his face.

She tried to explain. "The scaffolding you were leaning on, it cracked, and I. . ."

But he cut her off. His face was angry. "I know what woulda happened. Don't you think I woulda rather fallen in there? Jesus Christ!" he practically yelled. She jumped involuntarily. He seemed to realize then that he'd scared her. He reached out a hand, placing it on her forearm, just to indicate that it was OK. She looked down at his hand on her arm. The first time they'd touched since . . . since when? Since she'd kissed him goodbye yesterday morning before she left for work? Or, and the thought was chilling, but seeing his hand resting there on her arm, was it the first time they'd touched since she slipped from his grasp so many years ago?

But did it matter? No, it did not. He was here now. She was here now. His hand was warm, rough, large. She practically melted in to him, and his arms encircled her. He lifted her slightly so that she was now sitting on his lap, and he nuzzled his face into her neck. This was what she wanted last night. This is what she'd always wanted. Not just last night, but for the last six months at least . . . or three years . . . or thirty years . . . who knew?

It had worked. Somehow it had worked, and they were here now. She felt the tears come, and didn't even try to hide them. Soon, her body was wracked with deep sobs.

"Hey, now," she heard him whisper, but when she looked at him, he was crying, too. He was still fighting it, though, trying to hide it. That got her to giggling, back to crying, then laughing and crying all at once. She felt him, too, begin to laugh against her neck. _That_. She'd always loved just that.

_They'd finished a jigsaw puzzle, just some fruit basket. She'd always thought jigsaw puzzles were boring, but, they didn't have TV, they'd probably read everything in the house, and, well, you couldn't have sex _all the time_ (although there had been a handful of rainy weekends she'd started to question that assumption). He'd let out a "woo hoo!" each time he found one of the four corner pieces. It was endearing. They'd been best friends for just over a year, and lovers for almost half of that, and even after all this time, he'd do something silly like pump his fists over finding a corner piece, and her heart would skip a beat all over again. _

_He was very particular about his puzzles, and had organized piles for the basket, the various fruit pieces (a banana pile, an apple pile, a pear, an orange), the table pieces, and the edge pieces. She'd worked on the basket, he'd worked on the table and edges, and they finished the fruits together. He sat back, looking with satisfaction at their work, but she'd had enough, and got up to get ready for bed._

"_Hey," he pulled her back down, into his lap. "Gotta sit back and admire the fruits of our labor for a little bit." She ignored his silly pun. Whatever, she thought, but really couldn't resist sitting closely with him. "Mmmmmm.. ." he started. "That's one great lookin' fruit basket." She had to giggle at him. "Mighty fine melons," he continued. _

"_There aren't any mel-" she started. Oh. He wasn't looking at the puzzle anymore. He'd gotten her. He started to laugh against her neck. God, she loved that. She loved to hear him laugh. She loved it even more when it was so close. She could forgive him his lame "melon" remark, hell, she'd forgive him just about anything if he'd laugh against her neck forever._

"_I love you," she blurted. She instantly regretted it. Oh, why had she gone and said that? To make matters worse, he stopped laughing. Well, hell, it was the truth, wasn't it? But would it freak him out? Or worse, would he spout back "I love you, too," just because he felt he had to? She couldn't see his face, so she couldn't read his eyes to figure out what he was thinking._

_He tipped his head back to look at her. "'Course you do," he said. "Why wouldn't ya?" Perfect. He wasn't going to make a big deal out of it. He kissed her. Even more perfect. He picked her up, and sat her on the table, kissing her more deeply. He pushed the puzzle off the table in one swipe._

"_James! The puzzle!" she exclaimed as the pieces fell apart and piled up on the floor._

"_That'll give us something to do tomorrow night," he practically growled while he removed her shirt._

"Do you remember the fruit basket puzzle?" she asked him now.

"Ugh," he responded. "How many times did we put that damn thing together? I could probably do it with my eyes closed." But like that night so many years ago, he tipped his head back to look at her and to kiss her. His hands slipped under her Dan Marino jersey, and rested briefly on the small of her back before inching higher.

"I love you, James," she whispered to him. "I love you so much."

His hands stilled, as did his mouth, which had been nipping at her left earlobe. She realized, too late, what she'd said. It's exactly what she'd said when . . .

He rested his forehead on her shoulder. "How'd we get here?" he asked.

She wasn't sure what he meant, and so remained silent.

"The bomb was a dud," he continued. "How'd everything change? How'd we get back?"

"It wasn't a dud," she answered.

"Pretty sure it was," he responded. "Or don't you remember?"

"I remember. It was down at the bottom of that pit. I detonated it."

He just shook his head. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words escaped, so he went back to shaking his head. "Well, good work, Blondie," he finally managed.

He leaned back so that he was reclining against the back of the couch. She rested against him. She could hear the comforting 'thump thump thump' of his heart and feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. After awhile, she was surprised to note that he'd fallen asleep. She wondered if he'd slept at all last night. Her eyelids were getting heavy as well . . .

She woke to find that it was only a little after 7:30 AM. She lifted her head, but James was still dead to the world. She was only slightly embarrassed to find herself wiping a small puddle of her drool off her mouth and his shirt.

She hated to do it, but she was going to have to call in sick today. She knew it meant everyone else was going to have to shuffle and scramble to cover her patients, but there shouldn't be too many, since Thursday afternoons were lab afternoons. After that call, she wondered if it would be too early to call Rachel. With this new, appalling memory of six years apart, she needed to make sure Rachel was OK. What if Jacob hadn't healed her? What if everything had changed?

She decided not to wait around. It didn't take long for her to realize that everything was just as it had been yesterday. In fact, her early morning phone call didn't do anything more than set off Rachel's alarm bells.

"What's wrong? Why are you calling at this hour?" Rachel asked.

"I'm sorry, did I wake you?"

"No, but . . . everything's OK? Why are you calling?" Rachel demanded.

What was she supposed to say? "Because I just have a new set of memories where I was gone for six years, some of those in the 70s, your cancer came back, but some guy named 'Jacob' cured you, and I never met Julian." Uhm, no. She settled for "You called yesterday and I never got a chance to call back."

"About the dog? You're calling about us getting a pet?"

"Well, yeah."

And Rachel started right in. "I think I've got him convinced that a guinea pig is the way to go. Or a hamster. Something small and rodent-like. Not really my cup of tea, but it'll take a lot less work . . ."

She was still talking. About where they might get the guinea pig and whether she would have to take it to the vet, and how soon would she know if Julian was allergic and do you think they have a _Guinea Pigs for Dummies_ book. . . Juliet was silently weeping. Everything was OK. Everything was just fine.

"Hey. . . you're sure you're OK? It sounds like you're crying." Rachel was saying now.

"Just the sniffles. Maybe I'm coming down with a cold or something," was the best she could muster. James had gotten up from the couch and joined her in the kitchen. She looked at him apologetically. She was trying to be quiet, but was afraid she'd woken him. He didn't seem to mind. He stood behind her and put his arms around her, resting his forehead on her shoulder and his hands on her stomach.

Rachel seemed to buy her "sniffles" excuse because she was off again. "You guys are still coming over on Saturday, right? Dad's birthday? I still haven't figured out what to get him. I used to always get him an AutoZone giftcard, but Nancy doesn't want him working on his cars anymore. Even though I don't see how that's all that physically demanding."

"You'd be surprised," Juliet answered.

"Oh, what do you know?" Rachel said, and went on again about what in the world to get Dad, what was she going to feed him, what time were they coming over and etc., etc., etc. Juliet actually held up her hand and pumped the fingers up and down against her thumb in the unofficial sign language for "blah blah blah blah blah."

James began to chuckle, disentangled himself, and took eggs from the refrigerator. He started scrambling them and had them cooked before she was finally able to get Rachel off the phone.

"She's just fine!" she announced.

"Sounded like it," he answered. "Well, you always said the first thing you were gonna do was check on her. Man, she is gonna be so confused when I bust out my newly remembered Rachel trivia!"

She chuckled. Three years of him always listening patiently to stories of her sister -- they were finally going to pay off.

* * *

When he woke up on the sofa, he experienced a brief moment of alarm when he realized Juliet was no longer there. Very quickly, though, he heard her in the kitchen. She was talking to someone on the phone. He got up, stretched, and when he entered the kitchen, he saw tears rolling down her face. He knew she must be talking to Rachel. Three years of Juliet, Miles, and Jin's favorite parlor game: "What's the first thing you'd do if we ever get back to where we're supposed to be?" Her answer always was to find Rachel A.S.A.P. and make sure she was OK. Jin would, of course, find Sun. Miles would go get an In N Out burger. Sawyer usually tried to avoid answering. Truth was, his answer was starting to be "I think I _am_ where I'm supposed to be."

How wrong he was, he realized now. Here they were, in the real world, the right time, a real future available to them . . . he couldn't believe his good fortune. He stood behind Juliet, hugged her, and rested his forehead on her shoulder. Shortly, though, she started flapping her hand in a gesture he took to mean that Rachel was being long-winded.

He knew he still hadn't completely gained Rachel's trust, but they'd reached a détente of some sort. In fact, several days ago, they'd had an interesting little encounter.

He'd been cooking spaghetti one evening when he heard the keys in the front door.

"Hey!" he called out. "The garlic bread has to go a little longer, but dinner's just about ready. Of course, if you don't have an appetite yet, I bet I can figure out some kind of physical activity . . ."

Not hearing a response, he peered around the door frame to find Rachel in the entrance hall.

"Sorry," he said. "Not who I was expecting."

"I hope not," she said.

They stared at each other. What did she want? How to ask her nice enough to keep her from growing any more suspicious of him than she probably already was? Luckily, she answered for him.

"Dad took Julian to the ballgame. I'm here to get a bag from Juliet's closet. Don't mind me." She took off down the hall. He stood fixed in his spot awhile before deciding to follow her. By the time he got to the bedroom, she was already rooting around in the closet.

"Does she know you're here? Does she know you're taking this bag?" he asked.

"Who are you? The Gatekeeper?" she accused.

"No. It's just . . . I mean, I don't like you messing around in her stuff." Rachel stopped her search to give him a critical look. He went on, "What if she wants this bag? And you've taken it? I wouldn't want her to get upset over it."

"Well, that's real sweet," she responded, voice thick with sarcasm. "But here's the thing: It's actually my bag, she borrowed it, and I want it back. So, if Dr. Goody-Two-Shoes gets 'upset' about it, you can just tell her to get over it."

She went back to rummaging through the closet. "Ooooh! Nice!" she said, admiring a dress. She took the hanger off the rod, and set the dress beside her.

"That yours, too?" he asked.

"No. But I like it! And she's not going to wear it anytime soon. Guess I have you to thank for that."

"You're welcome," he mumbled. He heard the timer go off in the kitchen. "That's garlic bread. I need to take it out of the oven."

"Yeah, yeah. Like I said, don't mind me."

"Well, just don't take too much."

She looked up at him and smiled. "You really are sweet, you know. Standing up for her like this," she said, and it sounded more genuine this time around.

He was in the kitchen a few minutes later when she returned with an armload of clothes. He looked at her cockeyed.

Rachel ignored his look. "So, how was your date last night?" she asked. "Weren't you all going on some fancy dinner date?"

"Fine," he answered dully.

"Oh, 'fine'! That sounds fabulous," she snarked. "Too bad, she was really looking forward to it."

"Yeah, well, we ran into her ex, so . . ."

Rachel grunted. "And how is Dr. Jerk doing? I have _always_ hated that asshole. Did he act like a total tool or was he on his best, only slightly toolish behavior?"

He laughed. "Well, I don't have any comparison, but I'd say total tool. Can't figure out what she saw in that guy."

"That makes two of us," she answered. She added conspiratorially, "Here's a tip: don't bother asking her – she gets very defensive about it."

"Yeah, learned that the hard way."

"Are you still in the doghouse?" she asked. "Is that why you're slaving away in the kitchen?" He laughed and shook his head. She went on, "I can't remember if I've ever seen her as happy as she's been since you entered the picture. So, whatever you're doing, keep it up."

He gave her the biggest smile in his arsenal. It also happened to be genuine.

"Whew!" she fanned her face. "Mmmmm!"

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," she started, but he was giving her his best "come on, it's ok to tell" look, so she answered, "Never noticed quite how good looking you are." He blushed at her honesty. She went on, "You two are going to have one mighty pretty baby." He chuckled.

"I'll let myself out," she said, scooping up her pile of clothes. "If the good doctor asks, let her know I decluttered her closet for her. Happy to do it!"

Less than a week later, here he was, remembering three years of hearing about Rachel and her health. In particular, he remembered one day very clearly.

"_Hey, why the long face?" he asked, approaching her on the dock._

"_Rachel's birthday today," she answered._

"_How old?"_

"_She's turning 38. Although, it's 1975, so I guess she's only eight."_

"_What would you get her if you could?" he asked._

"_I'd get the 8-year-old version a Barbie townhouse. The 38 year old? I don't know. I haven't seen her in more than four years. She's a mother now. She's probably a totally different person. For all I know, she's into earthworm farming."_

_He laughed. "Tell me what she liked before you left."_

_She looked at him seriously. "You don't have to sit here and listen to me whine about my sister."_

"_Sure I do," he said. "You love her, I love you, and that's that." He slipped it in as subtly as he could. It had been two weeks since she'd told him she loved him. He'd been surprised and taken aback, but he loved her, too, and had been trying to figure out a way to slip it in without having to make a big deal of it._

_She looked him in the eyes. She'd caught it, he knew. She smiled, a big smile, rested her head on his shoulder and began to talk about Rachel._

He'd pretty much gotten the eggs scrambled before she got Rachel off the phone. She sat at a bar stool at the kitchen counter and he put a plate of eggs and a piece of toast in front of her. He fixed his own plate and joined her at the kitchen counter. They ate for awhile in silence.

"She growing earthworms?" he finally asked.

She laughed. "No. Guinea pigs, though."

They sat silently for awhile longer. "What do you think happened to everybody else?" she finally asked.

He reached into the back pocket of his jeans, and pulled out a creased paper. He unfolded it. It was his list of names. "This ain't complete," he said. "But some people are on this list, some aren't." He handed it to her, and watched her read it. He continued, "A bunch of folks aren't on there. You know, there was one name I was particularly glad not to see."

"Yeah, who's that?" she asked.

"Well, crossword lady, here's a clue. Four letters, first letter's K." That earned him a glare. "Kwon!" he announced. "Look, Jin's not on here. Sun neither." He laughed. "You though I meant Kate! I did that on purpose, you know."

"Not ready to joke about it, James" she responded.

"Look," he said. "I been thinkin' a lot about what you said. 'Maybe we were never _supposed_ to be together' – that's what you said." She bowed her head, but he went on. "And here we are . . . and the thing is, except for Hurley, I ain't never laid eyes on anybody else."

"You know Hurley?"

"Yeah. He comes to the coffee shop all the time," he answered. "Small world, huh? You know, me and the big guy were always awful close. Maybe _he's_ who I'm supposed to be with. So here's the deal . . ." he looked her up and down. "You got a lot to offer, but Hurley's loaded. You're better lookin', though."

She giggled. "I can't believe it, if my dad hadn't had a heart attack, if I hadn't missed my plane, if you hadn't asked me to drive all the way to Miami. . ." she trailed off and shook her head. "It seems all too good to be true."

He didn't disagree. How had all the cards fallen into place to lead them to this place, right here, right now? He suddenly felt warm and tingly all over. His heart felt like bursting with happiness. He held out a hand to help her out of the barstool. Still in his barstool, he guided her over, between his thighs and kissed her. He had an overwhelming desire to touch her all over, head to toe, and to thank whatever guiding force had brought her back to him all in one whole, unbroken piece. He wanted to kiss her, feel her, be _inside _of her.

Twenty minutes later when he _was_ inside of her, on his back, staring up at her, he was again simply overwhelmed. He placed his hands on her hips to slow her down. He just wanted to look, to remember the way she looked, felt . . . he hoped to never take this for granted again. He fixated on a bead of sweat on her collarbone. It began to slide down her chest and between her breasts and so much for the Slow Down Plan.

Thoroughly exhausted, they spent the rest of the morning sound asleep. A ringing phone woke him. She answered in a sleep-roughened voice, and he listened to her end of the conversation.

"Dad? . . .What? No, I'm fine, Dad. . . It's OK, really . . . The baby's fine, Dad. . . it's just a cold or something . . No, don't bring soup. . . James is here. He's taking care of me . . . Dad, Dad, Stop! Dad, the truth is, I just needed a day off work. I'm not really sick . . . Seriously. I'm fine. . . What is it you need? . . . Well, why'd you call my work? . . .Can you call me tomorrow? . . . I'll be at work tomorrow. . . OK. Yeah, Dad, I promise. I'm totally fine . . . OK, all right . . . love you, too." She hung up and flung herself back down on the bed.

"He called me at work to see about getting Dolphins tickets. They told him I called in sick. Gah! I'm a grown woman! You'd think I was seven by the way he acts sometimes!"

He chuckled. "I bet all dads think of their daughters as little girls . . ." he trailed off and sighed deeply. His answer to the "What's the first thing you'd do if we ever get back to where we're supposed to be" parlor game? "Find Clementine. Work on getting Cassidy to let me see her."

But it wasn't supposed to be like this. What was _supposed _to happen was Faraday or Chang or someone would find a way to get them back to the present and then they'd get rescued, and he'd go looking for Clementine. He'd be some kind of heroic, amazing plane crash survivor. It would at least be an "in." And Kate would have put in a good word for him. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He wasn't supposed to all of a sudden retrieve three years of memories. What had changed in his "real" life since yesterday? Absolutely nothing. And really, he couldn't spend the fall traipsing around trying to track them down.

"I'm supposed to find Clementine, ain't I?" he asked. She didn't answer. He went on, "We've got a lot going on. Maybe I should wait."

"Wait," she repeated. "Seems like we're always waiting for something. I'm wondering if we should try to find everybody else. Do you think they remember? If they weren't on the plane . . ."

"Nuh uh," he said, emphatically. "What the hell good would that do? Why the hell do we need to know what any of them are doing? Do you really care what Sayid's up to right now?"

"But. . ." she started.

"No. If they care so much, they can try to find us," he said, but he could tell she wasn't quite buying it. Fine. So he said, "All right, how 'bout it? Yeah, let's see if we can find, oh, I don't know . . . Kate." That got her attention. He kept on, "Yeah, that's a great idea. She might be a fugitive from the law, but that shouldn't stop us, right? Then when we find her, man! I bet she's lookin' great! All perfectly slim. Mmmmmm hmmmm!"

"I said I wasn't ready to joke about it," she said.

"Not joking. Just pointing out how stupid it is. Leave them alone. Let them come to us if they care so goddamn much."

"Point taken," she said. "You want lunch?" and she got out of bed. He watched her dress. Scrub pants, one of his t-shirts. It always gave him a thrill when she wore his clothes. She was facing away from him. She put her hands at the small of her back and stretched some from side to side.

"Hey, come here," he called, and she came to sit on the edge of the bed next to him. He rubbed the small of her back for her. "Thank you, that feels nice," she said.

"Here's the thing," he said. "Last thing I wanna do right now is get on a goddamn airplane. And I gotta figure out about my job, all my stuff in LA, my apartment. . . maybe I can pay someone to box it all up and move it here."

She eyed him. "I can hook you up with a good real estate agent if you're planning on a permanent stay in Miami."

"I already found the perfect place," he answered, "but the landlady makes me give her backrubs. Not sure that's legal." She giggled. He stopped rubbing her back, and moved his hands around to her belly. "Little guy needs a new name, I guess," he said.

"You don't like Horace Goodspeed Ford?"

"I don't want him getting' his ass kicked all over the playground."

"I think he'll be able to fend for himself," she declared.

After a brief pause, he said, "Ford? His last name's gonna be Ford?"

"It's either your last name or Ed's. Pretty easy pick. What do you want for lunch?

* * *

Friday she had to work. There was no way around it. Luckily, when she was with patients, she was too busy to obsess over new memories, island adventures, or tragic endings. Her morning schedule was full, and when she returned to her office, she had three voicemails from James. Yesterday afternoon they'd started pop quizzing each other. "Remember when those people shot at us in the canoe?" "Remember when I confronted you about getting that medicine for Claire?" "Remember when that guy almost cut off my arm?" It was as if they were trying to trick each other, to try to find a hole in their memories, to confirm this was really happening. Sure enough, each of James' three voicemails was another version of this. "Remember when Miles threw up in our shower?" "Remember when you installed the first eight-track player in my Jeep?" "Remember when I got that bad case of poison ivy?"

She returned his calls. Yes, she remembered all of that. Did he remember when Jin shaved his head? There was a long pause. "No. Shit. No, I don't remember that," he said, clearly worried. Their memories weren't matching up anymore. She laughed, "I made that one up. Just testing you."

Her afternoon went just as smoothly. She couldn't wait to get home, though. Was he really here for good? Had she just lucked into this? Meet a great guy, one you can't quite understand why you fall for so quickly, then get three years of memories back? What a wonderful life.

Saturday was Dad's birthday party, and she was flooded with emotions. Her family was here, right here, with her. They always had been. She'd met Julian the day he was born. She hadn't spent six years apart from any of them. And James was here, too. She just couldn't believe it. Singing Happy Birthday to Dad she let the tears come. She played it off, saying she was just thinking of Dad's heart attack. Her family wrote it off to hormones, and she was thankful for the excuse.

She and James drove home in near silence. He held her hand, but didn't make her talk about anything. He'd stopped, at least temporarily, with his "Remember when" pop quizzes. The reprieve was short-lived, however. Once they were home, he asked, "Remember Miles' birthday party?"

"I remember how freaked out he was," she answered.

"Yeah, but do you remember what we talked about after the party?"

She laughed. "Yeah, yeah I do."

"Well, I just would like it noted for the record that when I make a deal, I keep it. And no nuclear bomb, or 30 year time jump, or alternate reality keeps me from keepin' my word."

**Ohhhhhhh . . . such a long long chapter of cheesalicious fluff! The flashback to Miles' birthday party will have to wait. Thanks as always for sticking with the story. 22 Chapters. Good grief. Well, we are really really really reaching the end (or at least the original end) VERY quickly. Yay! And almost 200 reviews. I never in a million years would have imagined that. So, thanks for the feedback, as always. They are so much appreciated. Thanks!**


	23. Miles' Birthday

**Hope this one works better than Ch 22, in that it actually gets posted easily. Also, it's really long. I considered chopping it into several chapters, but eh . . . I just put little break lines in – read in spurts if you need to. It also probably looks even longer than it really is, because it's dialogue intensive. It's almost entirely flashback, including some flashback within the flashback – hope it doesn't confuse. I've been putting flashback in italics, but I hate reading italics, and so, no italics, OK?**

"Remember Miles' birthday party?"

"I remember how freaked out he was," she answered.

"Yeah, but do you remember what we talked about after the party?"

She laughed. "Yeah, yeah I do."

"Well, I just would like it noted for the record that when I make a deal, I keep it. And no nuclear bomb, or 30 year time jump, or alternate reality keeps me from keepin' my word."

"It takes two to tango, James," she replied. "I really think I should get some credit, too."

"Yeah, yeah. Sure. Remember the night after Amy's baby was born?"

"Of course."

"Well, there again, I'd just like it stated for the record that I think I was right and you were wrong."

"Duly noted," she said.

* * *

"He's just out there pacing. Maybe I should go talk to him," Sawyer said.

"Maybe you should," Juliet answered.

"But I thought you wanted me to set the table."

"Then do that."

OK, he really just wanted her to tell him what she thought he should do. But if he asked, "What do you think I should do?" she'd either A) never let him hear the end of it, or B) answer "I don't know, James, you're a big boy -- figure it out yourself." Or, really, the most likely option: C) Both. So, he finished setting the table as fast as he could and then joined Miles on the front porch.

Miles stopped his pacing. "We really should've heard something by now," he said, voice full of worry.

"Ah, you know how long things can take over the teletype. I wouldn't worry 'bout it just yet," Sawyer told him.

"What if there's a problem? What if the problem starts because I'm _already here_? What if I'm the cause of the problem?"

"You been lettin' Juliet fill your head with all sorts of ghoulish scenarios?" Sawyer asked him.

"No. She's been very encouraging about it. But she looks at me funny when she thinks I'm not looking. Looks funny at Mrs. Chang . . . errr, my mom, too. She acts like it's all cool, but I know she's just pretending."

"Well, she ain't the most reasonable when it comes to this topic. Trust me. Everything's gonna be just fine. Hell, maybe Radzinsky's being an ass. Wouldn't be the first time. For all we know, Jin's got the info already, but Mad Rad is holding him up for some shit job or something. Come in, get a drink. Chill out."

"Since when are you the calming voice of reason?" asked Miles.

"I'm not, but I want to have a fun party, and it ain't no fun if the guest of honor is a nervous wreck."

"Last fun party I had at your house, I ended up vomiting in your shower."

"Yeah, well maybe not _that_ fun. Juliet's just hoping to get Jin buzzed enough to tell us more dirty Korean jokes. Come on in." Sawyer clapped Miles on the shoulder and guided him into the house.

They walked back in. Dinner was pretty much ready. Nothing much to do but sit and wait for Jin. The three sat nervously, clutching their drinks. Miles kept jiggling his foot. The fast-paced tapping on the floor was irritating, but Sawyer and Juliet both chose to ignore it. Juliet attempted conversation. "Did I tell you guys we got six new eight-track decks on the last sub? We should be able to install them in all the vehicles by the end of the week."

"Hey, that's great," Sawyer smiled and nodded. Miles nodded, too. They all sat nodding at each other for a few moments. "Yep, new eight tracks . . ." Juliet trailed off lamely. Conversational dead end. They all took a sip from their drinks.

Miles kept up the foot tapping. Otherwise, silence prevailed. Sawyer looked helplessly at Juliet. She was making a "you try something" face. He tried, "Caught Phil bustin' out some John Travolta moves when he thought no one was lookin'." That got a nice, genuine laugh out of Juliet, but a clearly fake one from Miles. Silence again. More foot tapping. Sawyer looked back at Juliet. "What now?" he asked with his eyes. "Beats me," she answered with hers. Miles finished his beer. Glad for the distraction, Sawyer leapt up to get him another.

Just then, the front door burst open. It was Jin, clutching a 3x5 note card. "Attention please!" Jin announced, clearly relishing the group's rapt attention. "Miles Edwin Chang. Date of birth: April 23, 1977, 8:15 AM. 8 pounds, 4 ounces. Mom and baby are doing just fine!"

"Woo hoo!" Sawyer bellowed, and grabbed the champagne bottle they had waiting.

Miles sagged in relief, but stood up when Juliet approached him to wrap him in a giant hug. "Happy Birthday, Miles!" she shouted and kissed him on the cheek. Sawyer popped the cork on the champagne, and started pouring glasses for them all. Standing in a circle, they raised their glasses for a toast. He couldn't help but notice that Miles and Juliet both had tears in their eyes. And maybe, just maybe . . . Jin did, too.

Dinner, his favorite – eggplant parmesan, was fabulous. Miles had been something of an emotional wreck for his mother's whole pregnancy. They'd done the math on that and were well aware of Lara's impending motherhood before even she was, probably. Now, Sawyer could almost feel the relief emanating off Miles in waves.

Sawyer sat back. He wanted to take a mental snapshot of this night. Juliet was saying something unintelligible. Jin shook his head and rolled his eyes. Sawyer gathered Jin was coaching her on dirty Korean jokes. Miles was laughing so hard, bread crumbs spewed from his mouth. Jin, in the path of Miles' breadcrumbs, retaliated by tossing a carrot slice at him. This set Miles off on an even louder giggle fit that Jin couldn't help but join. Juliet caught Sawyer's eye at that point and winked and smiled at him. Had he ever been happier?

After dinner, they presented Miles with a birthday cake. Of course, Miles complained that there were no candles. "You're zero, Miles. I promise, I'll put a candle on it next year," Juliet chided. But they did sing "Happy Birthday" to him, and then all sort of stared at each other, because, well, now would be when the birthday boy was supposed to blow out his candles. "Hell, make a wish anyway, man," Sawyer commanded. Miles screwed up his face, shut his eyes, held that position for a few seconds, then reopened his eyes. "Well, damn," he said. "Still you people."

They'd played a few rounds of Clue (and as a birthday gift, no one complained when Miles did his thoroughly awful Colonel Mustard impression) when Sawyer exclaimed, "I almost forgot!" He jumped up, practically knocking over Juliet, who was resting her head on his shoulder. He pulled an envelope from a drawer in the end table. "Now for the moment of truth," he announced ominously, pulling four slips of paper from the envelope.

He put on his glasses and began to read. "OK, Jin, here's yours, buddy. 'April 23, 8 pounds, 4 ounces.' Hey, not bad, Jin-bo. Looks like we may have a winner." Jin nodded smugly. "Pfffffft," Miles protested.

Sawyer pulled out the next slip of paper. He squinted at it, took off his glasses, squinted again, put his glasses back on. "OK, this one I can't really read. Which can only mean this is the guess of my special lady."

"No editorial comments, please, just read it," said Juliet.

"I'll do my best, Lady Chicken Scratch. OK, well, heyyyyyy. . . waddaya know? I _think_ this one also says 'April 23, 8 pounds, 4 ounces.' Good guess, dear."

"Thank you."

He pulled out the two remaining slips. "Well, wonder of wonders, it looks like all four of us guessed the same damn thing. Imagine that."

"Yeah, real surprise there," muttered Miles. "Whatever happened, happened, and all that jazz."

"So, here's what I'm thinking," Sawyer said, ignoring him. "Jin, I think you'll agree with me. I think they," here he gestured at Miles and Juliet, "should be disqualified."

Both immediately protested.

"Insider information, you know." Sawyer explained. "I mean, Miles shouldn't be able to guess his own damn birthday and birth weight. And Juliet . . . sorry, love, but anyone who's written a dissertation on human reproduction clearly knows too much. Therefore, I declare me and Jin the winners."

"Yessssss!" Jin celebrated.

"All right, out with it, man," Sawyer prodded. "Two weeks of favors. What'll it be?"

Jin grinned. Then giggled and rubbed his hands together. "Miles. You will make my coffee every morning." Miles snorted. Jin went on, "Juliet. For the next two weeks, you will make sure the #8 van is reserved for me."

"I can try," Juliet offered.

"Do or do not. There is no try," said Sawyer.

"Shut it, Yoda," Juliet responded.

"Not before I tell y'all my favors," he answered. "Miles, for the next two weeks, I want you to bring the security logs over here every afternoon. Then wait for me to review and sign 'em, and then you take 'em back to the office." Miles rolled his eyes and threw his hands in the air. Sawyer continued, "Juliet . . ." He put his chin in his hand and affected a pose of deep thought. "Hmmmmm . . . for the next two weeks . . . Nah. Not polite to say it here in mixed company. I'll tell ya later."

"OK, I'm throwing the bullshit flag here," said Miles. "If we'd known we were going to get 'disqualified' [he even went so far as to use finger air quotes to register his disgust] I'd never have participated in this stupid game in the first place."

"The whole thing was your idea, San Antonio Slim," said Sawyer.

"I agree with Miles, and it _wasn't _my idea," said Juliet.

"Hey now, this favor I got in mind . . . well, I've never noticed you to have an issue with it before," Sawyer winked.

"You're crude," she said. She picked up the closest piece on the Clue board and threw it at him.

He picked it up. "The lead pipe! See, now we're on the same train of thought, because a lead pipe is a big part of the favor you'll be doing. A _big_ part, if you know what I mean." She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I think I got it," she said.

"You're lucky she didn't throw the rope at you," Miles remarked.

"Hmmmm. Rope. Maybe we can work that in, too," Sawyer mused.

"I think that's our cue to leave," Miles offered to Jin. They rose to leave.

"You want me to help clean up?" Jin asked.

"Nah, I think we got it," said Sawyer.

"I think they want us out of their hair," Miles said. "Hey, boss, look, got my walkie. See?" He waved it around so everyone could see. Miles and Jin let themselves out.

"Happy birthday, Miles" Juliet called after them.

Sawyer chuckled. For two and a half years, Miles never left their house without making a big to-do over the presence of his walkie.

* * *

Two and a half years ago, they'd spent an evening much like this one. It wasn't Miles' birthday, but they'd had dinner together, and played Monopoly after. For most of the nearly six months Juliet and Sawyer had lived in the house, having Miles and Jin come to dinner was always something to look forward to. They came over at least three times a week, and when they did, they could drink and laugh and joke and never have to watch what they said. They could have an extra beer or glass of wine because if someone accidentally slipped and mentioned something about the fall of the Berlin Wall, or that Darth Vader was Luke's father, or that the US beat the Soviets in hockey in 1980, well . . . you wouldn't be blowing your cover.

This particular night, however, Miles and Jin's visit was excruciating. Two weeks ago, they hadn't come over for dinner at all – Miles had been sick, then Jin. Last week they hadn't come over because both were on early morning patrol schedule. They hadn't been over for dinner in two weeks, and during those two weeks, Sawyer and Juliet had started sleeping together. Just casual, you know. No need to tell Miles and Jin. When the whole thing inevitably went south, they could just go back to "normal," and that would be easier to do without Miles and Jin knowing what had actually occurred between them.

So here they were, eating dinner, playing Monopoly, and it was agonizing. Dinner was at least bearable. They caught up on Dharma gossip, they ate their lasagna and drank wine. Sawyer worked extra hard not to make eye contact with Juliet, but when he did, she'd take a sip of wine and stare at him over the rim of her glass. "This sucks," he told her with his eyes.

Normally, she was the world's best listener, but he could tell she was only half listening to Miles' story about someone down at the Looking Glass. Instead she was obsessively folding, unfolding, and refolding her cloth napkin. She looked at Sawyer. "When are they ever going to leave?" she asked with her look. "Not soon enough," he replied with his.

"Tell them the good news, Jin!" Miles said.

Jin got up and went over to a duffle bag he'd brought in with him. "Monopoly!" he announced, pulling the game out of the bag.

"We were all getting so bored of Sorry!" said Miles. "Let's play! I call the shoe!"

"Cannon!" called Jin.

Sawyer now looked at Juliet and got the "I can't stand this much longer" look. What she said out loud, though, in barely a whisper, was "I guess I'll be the top hat."

"Such enthusiasm," snarked Miles. "LaFleur?"

"I'll take the car," he conceded.

If dinner had at least been tolerable, playing Monopoly was unbearable. The board was on the coffee table, and they sat on the floor, one to a side. Jin played banker and patiently and oh so goddamn slowly counted out everyone's money. Juliet sat directly across from Sawyer. At one point he stretched his legs under the table, and his sock foot ended up in her lap. He pulled it back quickly. Miles and Jin didn't seem to notice. Juliet cleared her throat, wiped her brow, landed on Marvin Gardens, and refused to buy the property.

"That'll give you a yellow monopoly!" Miles protested.

"I just want to save my money," she said.

"But you have plenty! That's a stupid move," Miles kept up, but she didn't give in.

A few rounds later and Miles was on her case again, "Have you ever even played this game? You're terrible at it!" And, sure enough, Juliet was bankrupted as fast as any player in Monopoly history. She stood up to start taking dinner dishes to the kitchen. She leaned over the coffee table to pick up Sawyer's dessert plate, in the process flashing him an amazing cleavage shot. The game went from unbearable to excruciating – actually, physically excruciating.

It hadn't taken Sawyer too long to catch on to what Juliet had done. She bankrupted herself on purpose; she was trying to get the game over with. Miles was so flabbergasted by her incompetence that Sawyer had been able to slip half a dozen lame-brained moves past him (he hadn't bought any houses or hotels on his green monopoly, he 'forgot' to ask the banker for $200 when he passed "Go"). He, too, was on the verge of going out.

"Once you're out, James, Jin and I are going to have a _mano a mano_ battle right to the bitter end."

Jesus. It was never going to end. Juliet had returned from the kitchen and was sitting on the couch chewing her thumbnail. Maybe he could try to tell Miles and Jin without actually telling them. He looked at Miles and used his eyes to tell him, "Juliet and I have been screwing like bunnies for the past two weeks, and we need you to leave so we can get back to doing that, OK?"

"You OK LaFleur? You got gas?" Miles asked him.

Shit. That whole "eye communication" thing only really worked with Juliet.

It probably took no more than an hour for quiet, serious Jin to finally bankrupt Miles and be the last man standing. Thank God. It had been the longest hour of Sawyer's life. As Miles and Jin gathered up their things to leave, Sawyer was practically pushing them out the door. Juliet was standing there waving them out like some sort of "bye, bye now, bye bye, bye now" flight attendant. He shut the door on their departing guests.

"God damn, I thought they'd never leave," he said.

"Shut up," she replied. He pushed her into the door. They kissed, briefly, but they needed more than that now. He turned her from the door, but they only got as far as the dining room table. He had her shirt, then bra, off in seconds. He was kissing, licking, nibbling the birthmark on the underside of her left breast. That small mark was an unbelievable turn-on. His own little secret. She had just as quickly removed his belt, unbuttoned, unzipped, and lowered his jeans, then boxers, and was using her hands on his naked ass to pull him closer.

The front door banged open. "Hey, forgot my walkie. . ." it was Miles. For a millisecond that seemed to last an eternity, the three of them stood frozen. Sawyer with his head buried in her naked breasts. Juliet with her hands gripping his bare backside. Miles staring, not quite realizing what he was seeing, and then slow comprehension dawning on his face. And when it did, he quickly lifted a hand to his eyes to shield them.

"OK, uh, . . .here it is," he lifted his walkie from an end table, still covering his eyes. "I'll, uh. . . uhm," he cleared his throat. "OK, I'll… I'll, yeah, OK, I'll just let myself out." He did, shielding his eyes the entire way. He slammed the door behind him.

"So much for keeping this on the down-low," Sawyer said.

"He's going to have a field day with this," she answered, pulling him closer.

Sawyer dreaded the next morning. He would bet even money Miles was awake at least half the night thinking up ways to torment him. Sawyer was bleary and tired. He'd been up more than half the night, too, and had been for two weeks. It was starting to catch up with him. Every morning, he'd say to himself, "Tonight I'll get a good night's sleep. We'll take a night off," but every night he'd break that vow. Now he was dragging in to the security office, sipping his third coffee of the morning, and fervently hoping that Miles would be somewhere else. Or at the very least, that the office would be full, and Miles would have to bide his time before he let loose his snark attack. No such luck. He passed Phil coming up the steps as he went down, and his heart sank to see only Miles waiting at the monitors.

"Morning, boss," Miles chirped.

"Miles," he answered before taking a big gulp of coffee and sitting at the desk.

"Here's last night's logs," Miles said, placing several notebooks in front of him. "Nothing out of the ordinary. Just need your signature." Sawyer flipped through the books, signing where necessary. He handed them back to Miles, mentally steeling himself for Miles' onslaught of mockery.

"Thanks, boss." Miles took the notebooks. "I guess the only other thing is . . ." here he seemed to pause dramatically. Sawyer gulped his coffee. Miles continued, "Dr. Chang wants us at the Orchid by 11. Some briefing or something."

"All right," Sawyer said. "That all?"

"That's all. I'm on the monitors until we leave for the Orchid. Guess you'll be working on the new protocol?"

So they sat in there for close to two hours, Miles watching the monitors, flipping through a magazine, Sawyer reading over the new security protocol. He was supposed to be making suggestions, edits, improvements; instead he couldn't concentrate. Every time Miles cleared his throat, shifted his weight, stretched in his chair, Sawyer looked up expectantly. "All right, let's hear it," he thought. But Miles held his tongue. It was driving Sawyer nuts. Jesus, maybe it would be worse if Miles never said anything. Just like he knew, but decided to hold it over his head forever. On a few occasions, he looked over and stared at Miles for a good long time, daring him to say something. But Miles would just smile a shit-eating grin and waggle his fingers at him. "Need something, boss?" he'd ask. This was miserable.

Eventually, they got in the Jeep for the ride to the Orchid. More uncomfortable silence. Sawyer broke. "Jesus, man, ain't you gonna say something?" he blurted.

"About what?" Miles asked, all false innocence.

"About why you were so anxious to be the shoe last night, dipshit. 'About what?' You know damn good and well about what."

Miles rubbed his hands together gleefully. "About how you earned me 50 bucks straight outta Jin's pocket?"

Sawyer looked at him, confused.

"Yeah, see we had a bet. When you guys moved in together, I bet you wouldn't make it six months before you started sleeping together. I checked the calendar. You don't hit the six-month mark till Wednesday. Hence, ka-CHING. Jin owes me $50."

"You bet on us sleeping together?"

Miles nodding smugly, answered, "Jin said it would be longer than six months. Sucker. Although it turned out closer than I thought. Unless. . . how long's this been going on?"

"Few weeks," Sawyer answered. "Well, what if we never started sleeping together? What then, huh? Who took that bet?"

Miles screwed up his face. "Uhm, _no one_. Duh. We're not idiots."

By now they were at the Orchid, and the conversation was over. They sat patiently as Dr. Chang discussed the security and special teams he wanted implemented here. He walked Sawyer through a few things while Miles sat waiting in the Jeep. Miles always tried to have as little to do with Dr. Chang as possible. Once they were finished, Sawyer slid back into the driver's side, and he and Miles set off for the barracks. It took about two minutes of the return trip for Sawyer to realize there were worse things than the morning's silence.

Miles' mouth was on top speed from the get-go. "Let me just start off by saying that I've grown to like her. Really. Honest to God truth. But she can seem so cold sometimes, you know? So I just gotta know, is she always like that? Does she give you that scary look when you're . . . you know. . . _doing it_?"

"Shut up, Miles."

"Or is it kind of a turn on, 'cause I guess I could see that, too. The thing is, I just can't really imagine her in the throes of passion. Although, given what I saw last night, I don't even really need to use my imagination."

"Enough, Miles. I'm serious."

"I'm trying to imagine different scenarios, but the images just aren't coming. And, hey, speaking of 'coming,' have you gotten to see her 'O-face?' I mean, has she ever . . ."

Sawyer slammed on the brakes, reached across Miles, and threw open the passenger-side door. "Out!" he commanded.

"You're gonna make me walk back??" Miles pleaded.

"Goddamn it! OUT!"

Miles reluctantly began to comply, but tried to bargain. "Come on, man, I'm just giving you a hard time." He was already on the side of the road by this point, so Sawyer slammed the door shut and peeled off.

Fuming, he'd gone no more than a few hundred yards when he noticed Miles' walkie sitting in the passenger seat. Goddamn walkie. Cause of so much trouble. He was tempted to keep on driving, but it would be dangerous to leave Miles out here without any form of communication. He reluctantly shifted the Jeep into reverse and backed all the way up to Miles' spot by the side of the road.

"Knew you'd come to your senses, man," Miles started, reaching to open the door.

Sawyer just threw his walkie to him. "I ain't here to pick you up, moron." He started forward again before braking to a halt. "Hey Miles," he called out. Miles picked up his pace to catch up to the Jeep, clearly hoping he'd now get his ride back. No such luck. All Sawyer said to him was, "To answer your question. Three times – and that's just last night. Three times. See ya back in Dharmaville."

Now he peeled off for good. He chuckled when he looked in the rearview mirror and saw Miles flipping him off. "Fuck you, LaFleur!!" he heard him yell. Such a hot day, too. Pity to be poor Miles.

* * *

Two and a half years later and Miles still waved that damn walkie around every time he left their house. Sawyer wondered what was more absurd – that there had been a time when he and Juliet had been sure this "thing" would inevitably crash and burn, or that he had gone two and a half years without once punching Miles' lights out. He was a good friend, yes, but he still could be a royal pain in the ass.

Juliet was already cleaning up the kitchen. He brought dishes in from the table. "I don't know how I'm gonna make it when Lara gets back from the mainland," he said. "There'll be two Mileses around. I realize one of 'em's just a baby, but this place is barely big enough for one Miles. Now I gotta deal with two of 'em?"

She laughed. "Wonder which will be whinier? Baby Miles or 'grownup' Miles?"

He chuckled and began to fill the sink with hot water. He squeezed in some dish soap. He cleared his throat. "Well, another healthy baby."

"Yep," she said, putting leftovers in the fridge.

"And healthy mom, too."

"Seems like it."

"I guess that just means that whatever problems you're always so freaked about aren't a problem yet," he kept up.

"Guess so."

"And I guess that means . . ."

"Just stop," she interrupted him. "Please. I know what you're getting at…"

"You do?" It was his turn to interrupt.

"Yeah, and I appreciate it, I do, but the answer is 'no.' So just drop it."

"No? Just like that? No. And you ain't gonna talk about it?"

She sighed. "I know you think it's 'beneath' me to be a mechanic. I know you think I have some burning desire to be some hot-shot doctor again."

"But . . ." he started.

"Let me finish, OK? I'm perfectly happy right now. I don't need all that hassle, I really don't. And even if it's not a 'problem' yet, it will be some day, and I don't want any part of it. I go to work, I fix cars, I come home. The engine block on the #4 Jeep cracked today. And you know what? We can't fix it. That Jeep's done. We'll cannibalize it for parts. And you know what's more? No one cried about it. That Jeep doesn't have a husband or mom or sister or son. And a replacement will come on a sub, and I can have a nice, fun night and not even care what's happened to the #4 Jeep. It's sweet of you to think I want to do more, but I don't. I just don't."

"Finished?" he asked. She nodded. "Good," he continued. "You know, I've heard all that before. More than once, actually. Except the part about the #4 Jeep – that's new."

"So why did you . . ."

"Let _me _finish," he said. "I wasn't talking about you doin' doctor stuff again. I was talking about us."

"What about us?" she asked.

"If you'd stop interrupting, I'm getting to that. I mean, what about us having a baby?"

"It's 1977, James."

"What?!?!?" he asked. "Really?? 'Cause I thought I was in this ridiculous get-up because it's so stylish." He gestured to his purple paisley, wide-collared shirt. He went on, "No duh, genius, I know it's 1977. Is there some kind of 'baby quota?' I'm pretty sure there'll be a lot more '77 babies."

"Not ones whose moms were born in 1970."

"You realize that you ain't actually seven years old, right?"

That didn't stop her from pouring out excuse after excuse. On and on she went. "_It_ [meaning whatever the problem was they'd brought her here in the first place to solve] could begin at any time." He considered that, then told her he remembered her saying those women got sick for awhile first. More than enough time to get on the sub and off the island if it started up again.

"Do you really want to raise a child here?" she asked.

"Do you realize we can leave here anytime we want?" he answered.

"You know these people all get wiped out in about 15 years." He did. They could leave here way before that.

"What if we start flashing through time again?" she said.

"What if Brezhnev goes nuts and decides to nuke the whole planet to kingdom come tomorrow?" he countered.

She rolled her eyes at him. "We know he doesn't, don't we?"

"Look, it's scary, I understand," he said. "But I'm sick and tired of not having a future. That seems weird to say since we're living in the past and all. But I'm tired of tip-toeing around and trying to shut my mind up to the things I really want. Come on, you can't tell me you don't ever think about it."

"I try not to."

"I try not to, either. 'Cause I think our kids would be major smart asses."

She laughed. "Kids? I'm not even past the fact that it's 1977 and we're living _here,_ and you're talking plural? You have an awful lot of confidence in your powers of persuasion, buster."

He did. Not only that, but even if he didn't have an awful lot of confidence in his powers of persuasion, he had a lot of confidence in his ability to read her (probably the greatest accomplishment in his life, when it came right down to it), and he knew this argument was as good as won. Her admission that she _tried_ not to think about it was the first crack. That she moved on to joking about his remark and giving him shit about his "powers of persuasion" was the second. Maybe she didn't know it yet, and maybe it would take weeks or months of steadily grinding her down, but the truth was, she wanted it, too, and he knew now she was just scared to admit it. He decided the best course of action was to back off and let it all sink in.

"When's Amy's baby due?" he asked.

"Not really sure."

"Horseshit. You know exactly when. Out with it."

"August 4," she mumbled.

He chuckled. She hated it when he called her on a lie. "I'll make a deal with you. This is the last you hear from me on this topic till Amy's baby's born. And if everything turns out OK? You gotta at least consider it. Deal?"

"I seem to recall you saying you didn't want to have kids."

"Yeah, well, I seem to recall saying I didn't like eggplant parmesan. I've said a lot of stupid shit." He stuck out his right hand. "Deal?"

She stared at him for a beat, skepticism and indecision and excitement doing battle in her eyes. "Deal," she finally said, and shook his hand. And then he laughed and laughed and laughed at the absurdity of _shaking hands_ on a deal such as this.

* * *

In the days after Miles' party, she was thoroughly off-kilter. She was forced to really examine her life. She'd been telling herself how happy she was. Her job gave her a sense of satisfaction. It was fun to figure out what was broken, and even more fun to fix it. And when she couldn't fix it – no big deal. She had good friends, and parties likes Miles' birthday were always a blast. James was, unexpectedly, amazingly, the highlight of her life. A true friend, he never ceased to amaze her with his hidden thoughtfulness or his shared sense of humor. That he happened to be an amazing lover whose smile could still knock her off her feet was just the icing on the cake. Life was good.

But upon further examination … was it really? Her job _did_ give her a sense of satisfaction, but she once had a job that gave her a real thrill. She _did_ like being able to come home and forget her job existed, but once upon a time, she'd been so energized by her job that she enjoyed solving problems on her own time. She _did_ have good friends, but only three friends she was completely honest with. Every other "friend" she had knew a fake, mechanic version of her. James _was_ the highlight of her life, but as he'd just stated so clearly, there could be more to their relationship than she'd dared to dream.

Life was good as long as she shut her mind to all the things she wanted that would make it _better_.

They'd talked about kids before. Way back when they were just friends, or maybe it was when they were just roommates, or, heck, maybe it had been when they were just having a "casual" thing. Whenever it was, it was at a stage of their relationship when it was completely safe to talk about this sort of thing, because it was hypothetical and had nothing to do with "them."

He'd opened up about Clementine. "Only reason that little girl ever even got made was because I was tryin' to steal from her mama. Why'd I ever want to come to face to face with a tiny little person who only just reminds me what a bastard I am? Besides, I had such a shitty childhood, I ain't never wanted nothing to do with kids."

And what had she said? "Yeah, I suppose I did always want to have kids. My ex and I tried for awhile, it didn't work, and now I've been here for close to four years. Guess that ship has sailed." That was that. Fine.

"James doesn't want to have kids" was a simple fact about him. A simple fact she didn't question or try to change. Just like "James needs glasses to read," or "James' right ring finger is crooked," or "James always finishes a book once he's started it." And she was OK with all of those facts about him. OK, there were times she'd see him tossing a football around with a handful of ten-year-olds or pseudo-flirting with a shy six-year-old girl, and her stomach would knot up just a little bit. But the simple facts of James' life (he doesn't want to have kids) and the simple facts of their shared life (the time, the place, their knowledge of the future), meant she never seriously contemplated the facts of life in the more traditional sense.

Now he was forcing her to. Should she be surprised he'd changed his mind about kids? He'd changed his mind on wanting to make an effort to see Clementine if he could. He'd changed his mind on eggplant parmesan. He'd changed his mind on being friends with Miles. He'd changed his mind on _her_. It shouldn't surprise her at all. In fact the football-tossing, pseudo-flirting, child interaction that put knots in her stomach was becoming more and more frequent. This had been something he'd been contemplating for a good long while. She had just chosen to ignore it.

So, she watched Amy like a hawk. Amy and Horace were friends, sure, and she was _always_ on edge whenever there were pregnant women hanging around on this island. But now this particular pregnant woman was like some sort of living, breathing referendum on her future. She counted down the days till the sub would take Amy away, and then they'd wait to hear word.

* * *

Fruit bowls were everywhere in the kitchen. He couldn't quite remember who they had to make all the bowls for, or why, or why he and Jin were so frantic to have them done. Sawyer chopped pineapples. Jin was chopping apples and dousing them in lemon juice. WHACK WHACK WHACK. Jin was a _very_ enthusiastic apple chopper.

Juliet came to the doorway of the kitchen. She was wearing only a tank top and panties – clearly no bra. _**Nice.**_ But Jin was right here. He glanced at Jin, but Jin seemed to be paying Juliet no mind. WHACK WHACK WHACK, he was too busy with his aggressive apple chopping. When Sawyer looked back at Juliet, he realized she was also wearing a massive purple foam "We're #1" finger. Odd.

"James," she approached him seductively. Or as seductively as anyone with a foam #1 finger can. WHACK WHACK WHACK. Jin kept chopping. "James . . ." she sidled up behind him and jostled him a little bit. "Mmmmmmmmm?" he asked.

WHACK WHACK WHACK

"James! Wake up! Someone's at the door!"

Poof went the fruit bowls! Poof went Jin's violent apple chopping! Poof went the foam #1 finger! Poof went his hopes of getting a little action in the kitchen! Instead, it was Phil and Jerry at the front door, and their problem was Horace, drinking and dynamiting trees.

So he gathered up Miles and went to gather up Horace. He'd make a little nice chitchat with Amy and then head home. Except nice chitchat lasted less than a minute. The next thing he knew, Amy was doubled over in pain. The baby was coming. He felt the blood drain from his face. This was too early, he knew that much. This shouldn't be happening. This wasn't supposed to happen. He wished his reaction was purely selfless. He wished his primary concern was for the safety of Amy and her baby, but, hell, this was his _future_ on the line. He felt sick.

He paced, waiting for the doc to come out and tell him what was going on. So, it was early. No big deal. This would be a little more dramatic than he'd hoped, but it would be just fine. The doc came out, though, and started spouting off about a "dangerous situation," and making all sorts of lame excuses. Worthless. The guy was worthless. Screw him, though Sawyer. He wasn't going to sit back and let his future rest on some pencil-necked, mutton-chopped, Coke-bottle glasses-wearing chicken shit of a doctor. No, sir.

He was pretty much on autopilot, striding over to the motor pool. There was a goddamn, certified expert right here, and hell if he was going to let everything go to shit just because she was scared of the situation and because he was scared to confront her about it. She wasn't pleased. In fact, he could tell she was pretty well pissed. He was asking a lot after all. "Hey, I need you to face up to pretty much your biggest fear. And FYI, if you screw this one up, so much for any blonde-haired, blue-eyed little ones to keep us busy. No pressure."

He had gotten her to do it, though, and then he just had to wait. Horace, the guy whose actual wife and actual kid were in there facing life and death, was passed out drunk on his couch. Not a care in the world. Sawyer, the guy whose fake wife and hypothetical future kids were in there facing nothing more than a crisis of confidence, paced. He wrung his hands. He'd really backed himself in a corner, hadn't he? If things didn't work out, he had some dark days ahead. Poof would go the hopes of starting a family! Poof would go any confidence or happiness she'd gained in three years! Poof would go his ability to convince her of anything ever again!

Jin's arrival was a bit of blessed relief. But it really wasn't long before she came out. Shit. She looked beat. "What happened?" he asked.

"It's a boy," she said.

Wait, could it be? "He's okay? She's okay?"

"Everyone's OK," she answered.

Well, great day in the morning! Everything was A-OK! More than anything, he wanted to jump up and down, maybe dance a little jig. He restrained himself, and tried to act like this wasn't just about the best news he'd ever heard in his whole damn life. His face acted of its own accord, and just kept breaking out into a wide grin. She just kind of nodded at him. Maybe she just meant, "It's all OK. It's fine," but maybe she also just meant, "I remember our deal, and I'm acknowledging it."

He wasn't going to badger her about it. This was her day, her triumph, and he could wait. Since Miles' party, he'd kept his promise not to bring it up again. OK, sure, he'd gone out of his way to sit at lunch with little, shy six-year-old Chrissy, just when he was sure Juliet would be looking. And, yes, he hadn't once turned down an offer to toss around the football with the pack of ten-year-olds who congregated in the quadrangle most afternoons. She'd been watching then, too. But he hadn't out and out brought it up. He could wait awhile longer, let her have her moment in the sun.

He'd even gone so far as to bring her a flower. He was proud, and everything else could wait. She didn't even give him time to wait, though. They were just there, kissing in the kitchen, and he was starting to wonder if they'd just skip dinner. She pulled away from the kiss to stare at him. OK, on to dinner, that was fine. "I threw my pills out," she said. He pretended not to be floored. He definitely thought this was going to take a bit more work, more convincing, but apparently not.

They'd gone on to have dinner. She was so full of giddy relief she just kept up a steady stream of constant, mindless chatter. It wasn't her style, but he was charmed by it nonetheless. They cleaned the kitchen, but just skipped over the rest of their typical evening activities – puzzles, cards, games, books – no, they had more important things to do.

For Sawyer, and he assumed for most other men, as far as aphrodisiacs go, there was very little that could top a good ego boost in the sack. "You're so big," was one he'd always been particularly fond of. Or its cousin, "You feel so deep." That one still held its power. As did any version of "I'm coming," as that was a complement to his skill as much as to his physical attributes. He'd heard all of them hundreds of times, though, from scores of women. They hadn't completely lost their power, but they could always be faked. He wondered how many of those scores of women had been faking.

This, though . . . this couldn't be faked. This woman loved him enough, thought highly enough of him, that she was willing (hell, eager) to _make another human being_ with him. Damn, but that was some powerful ego-boosting turn on. And, sure, he liked it when some of those other ego-boosting phrases slipped from her mouth from time to time, but they were nothing like this. God, it was amazing, and he felt his release so powerfully . .. he just knew. That was it, and it had been so very easy.

Once they'd both caught their breath, he announced as much. "Well, there ya go. Nine months from now, and we'll be welcoming our little one. Better start thinking of names now."

"It doesn't work that way, James," she chuckled.

"I'm pretty sure that's exactly how it works," he answered. "Keep in mind, I've done this once before."

"Get over yourself. I've gotten hundreds more women pregnant than you have."

"Yeah, but I'm pretty sure I just doubled my total, so you can step down off your high horse, missy."

She laughed again. "What I meant was, it can take up to three months after stopping the pill for fertility to return. Not only that, but there are only certain times of the month . . ."

He put his fingers over her lips to quiet her. "You know that 'whap whap whap' sound my Jeep makes sometimes?"

She looked confused, but answered, "Yeah, when it gets too hot, the fan belt stretches and gets loose."

"Whatever," he said. "You're the expert, and I'll go to you next time that starts up, but I sure as hell ain't gonna take 'fertility advice' from a damn mechanic, so you can shut up about all that nonsense."

She laughed. It was the last time he ever heard her laugh. Or at least, it was the last time he heard her laugh until they were sitting on a soon-to-be-cancelled flight out of Cincinnati nearly thirty years later.

* * *

She hadn't been 100% honest with him that night. She told him she threw her pills out. Not a lie, but not the whole truth, either. She lead him to believe she'd thrown them out that afternoon, but truth was, she'd thrown them out only a few weeks after Miles' birthday. "Why wait?" she'd decided. No sense in that. If they were going to do this, it didn't make sense for it to hinge on some other arbitrary event.

She hadn't said anything to him. For one thing, she kind of enjoyed stringing him along. Like he promised, he never said anything else about it, but he was being extra nice. He was buttering her up, that was plain and clear, but she didn't mind it. For another thing, she was still anxious about it. That crazy, superstitious part of her brain felt like if she didn't say anything, didn't acknowledge it, then it wouldn't be entirely true.

So when she fed him all those facts about three months and certain times of the month, she was just trying to soften the blow. Her career, well, her old career, had been spent dealing with people for whom this didn't come easy. To have it happen the first try, that just didn't happen in her world, and it was easier to know that upfront. At her age, they could spend a good long while trying. He needed to know that. But, truth be told, maybe he was right. Maybe it had just happened. Probably not. But _what if?_

_What if?_ It was a powerful, exciting, and hopeful question. _What if?_

Twenty four hours later and she was furious at him. Furious at him for convincing her things would be all right. Even more furious at herself for buying it. For nearly three years she'd lived here and kept at bay some of her larger hopes and dreams. They couldn't happen here and they couldn't happen now, and she was _**just fine**_ with that. But then they'd had Miles' party, and James had put that little worm of an idea into her brain. They could do it. He'd smiled at her and been oh-so-charming and convincing. They'd been here three years, what could go wrong? It was time to forget all that and start embracing the future and yada yada yada, and it was all BULLSHIT.

They were back. They were back mere hours after she finally and completely embraced a real future. Damn them. And damn him for convincing her to do this, and damn her for falling for his charm offensive.

For four days she watched their whole world crash in around them. And that nagging question at the back of her mind. _What if?_ The question was still powerful, but no longer exciting. No longer hopeful. _What if?_ It was scary, and nerve-wracking and maddening. _What if?_

She would never – never – let him talk her into something like this again. Never again would she throw caution to the wind and do something so potentially dangerous. How long had that little promise lasted? She'd kept it for the final four days of their life together. But in this life? She hadn't even known him an hour when she broke it. It lasted until he'd convinced her to drive with him to Miami. Him, a complete stranger. He'd convinced her to get in the car, alone, with a disreputable looking stranger.

And not even 48 hours after that, she'd gotten pregnant. Or had she already been? How did that work?

* * *

"Remember the night after Amy's baby was born?" he had just asked her.

"Of course."

"Well, there again, I'd just like it stated for the record that I think I was right and you were wrong."

"Duly noted," she said.

Was he right? How did this work? What was this life? A continuation of their old one? An entirely new one? Had they just picked up where they'd left off without knowing it? Did it even matter? She glanced over at him. He was sitting on the couch, taking off his shoes. Seriously, how did this work? Had she known him for six months? Or three years? Or twenty seven years? And what were they going to tell their kids? (Plural, she chuckled to herself). What was it he had said about them? "Probably be major smart asses." Probably he was right, and she was OK with that. Smart asses she could handle. The one sitting on her couch she'd loved for nearly thirty years.

**And they lived happily ever after. THE END. **

**(Insert evil laugh here). OK, way back when, back when I said I had an idea where this was going and how this was ending? This was it. See, they got their memories back, realized they were always supposed to be together, and had a nice little tie-in with their last few months in Dharmaville.** **_Voila! _Yay, so neat and clean. Except I'm kind of addicted to this, so I am contemplating epilogue-y type chapters, and even have the next one sort of thought out in my head. And that pains me to say, since I am so pleased with this little ending. But, whatever. It's not like this is the great American novel or something, to hell with nice, neat endings. So, we'll do a handful of epilogues to check in on these guys. And then in February we'll be on something like Chapter 87: James and Juliet pick out an assisted living facility. Whee!**

**And when you are sick and tired of reading about their nursing home and their bunions and whatnot, you (some of you) have only yourselves to blame for enabling my addiction.**


	24. A Familiar Face

**You asked for it, you got it. Epilogue #1 coming right up. And, hey, if you are like me and prefer nice, neat endings – STOP READING. The plot (such that it was) is pretty much over, now we're just on to filling in all those loose ends that people keep asking me about. What about the other survivors? And the baby? And Clementine? And James' job? Well, if you are interested, then – KEEP READING b/c that's what these epilogues will try to be all about.**

**This one? Eh . . . not even so much of all of that, but it was an idea that came to me, and I like it, and it drags things out just a bit longer, so . . .**

**Oh yeah. Don't be confused. FYI, this chapter is from someone else's POV (at least until the very end). OK. Ready?**

September 27, 2004

The elevator was going entirely too fast. He needed a little more time to get his nerves under control. The flight came in just fine, no problems with his bags, easy to get a cab, no traffic, no wait for the elevator, and now he was already here on the right floor. Why is it things go so smoothly whenever you could actually use the extra time? Maybe he should have called. Maybe just showing up here was a bad idea.

Less than a week ago, he'd been minding his own business, going about a normal day, when a report on the TV in the reception area stopped him cold. The crash of Oceanic 815. And for a day and a night strange memories came flooding back. He'd spent most of Thursday trying to drink it away, but on Friday, forced to return to work, dealing with a nasty hangover, he realized _**nothing**_ was going to make it go away.

In the little free time he had at the office, he'd madly Googled everyone he could remember from the flight, and Hurley was the only one he'd been able to track down.

"Oh, thank God, dude," Hurley had practically collapsed on him when Jack showed up at his front door. "I was starting to think I was going loco again, man. It is _**so**_ good to see you, Jack. You remember it all, too?"

Jack had started to think he was going loco, too, and as he and Hurley recalled three years' worth of life, he began to slowly get his bearings back. "I think we need to track everyone down," he told the big man. "It's just . . . I can't figure out how. Sun, Jin, Sayid . . . I don't even know where to begin or where they could possibly be. Sawyer, Kate . . . if Google's any indication, I doubt either one wants to be found."

"I know Sawyer."

"What do you mean you 'know him'?"

"I don't know what I mean exactly, but I've totally seen him around someplace. It's been driving me nuts. Well, not literally. Or, I don't think literally. Anyway, I think he's around somewhere."

"That's not exactly helpful," Jack scoffed.

"Dude, have you looked up Juliet?" Hurley asked.

"She wasn't on the plane."

"I know, man, but maybe she never went to the Island. It would take like 3 seconds on Google to figure it out. She's not foreign, she's not a criminal. Can't hurt to try."

It didn't hurt to try, and it did take only about three seconds to find that she worked at a hospital in Miami. And here he was in that very hospital.

The elevator doors were opening onto her floor. He should have called. Except if he called and she didn't know who he was, he would have flown out here anyway, to try to jar her memory. And if he called and she _**did **_know who he was, he would have flown out here anyway just to see her. He felt the need to "collect" these people he felt so responsible for. He had Hurley. He'd get Juliet, and it would be a start.

But he was here now, and sweaty and nervous and anxious. The thought crossed his mind that he could use a pill. But in _this _life, he'd never started pill popping, and it was a flood of relief to know that even if his brain thought it, his body didn't crave it. Besides, what was he so anxious for? If she didn't remember him, he'd move on. The others would be more difficult to track down than she had been, but he'd do it. No, he realized now that his worry was that she _would_ remember him. What had he ever done for her besides lead her on, leave her behind, and then show up to "fix" things that didn't need fixing? And he was a little clueless as to what exactly had happened to her, but if the devastated dead weight that had been Sawyer at the top of that drill hole was any indication, it must have been terrible.

"Man up," he thought. So he took a deep breath, and approached the reception desk.

"Can I help you, sir?" asked the woman there, young-ish, slightly overweight, with an immaculately coiffed head of hair, and a nametag reading "Kristi."

"Hi Kristi. I'm here to see Dr. Burke," he announced.

"And do you have an appointment?" she looked intently at her computer monitor.

"No, I . . ." he didn't want to give away his anxiety, and he was trying hard to play it cool, but he hadn't really thought through how he was going to work his way past reception.

Before he was able to come up with a smooth lie, the receptionist interrupted. "Sir, Dr. Burke is very busy, and I'm afraid if you don't have an appointment, you won't be able to get in. If you or your wife," she looked around him, clearly assuming he'd come in here with a woman (and why wouldn't he have?). She gave up the search for a wife. "If you'd like to make an appointment, here is the direct number to our department . . ." she was handing him a card.

"No, you don't understand. Juliet and I we're . . . well we were . . . we were colleagues." Not entirely a lie, he thought, although he could only imagine what Kristi would think of the botched Ben blackmail surgery. Or what Kristi might think of Ben. Or smoke monsters. Or hydrogen bombs. Whatever Kristi was thinking, she was looking at him skeptically.

"Look," he continued, pulling out his St. Sebastian hospital badge. "Please, just call back to her. My name is Jack Shephard. Tell her I'm here. If she doesn't remember me or doesn't want to see me, I promise I'll be out of your hair. Just, please, call."

Kristi eyed him warily for an uncomfortably long time before picking up the phone and dialing a few numbers. Jack listened to Kristi's end of the conversation. She sounded dubious. "Hey, Nellie, is Dr. B in there with you? Yeah. Can you tell her there's this guy out here who seems kind of desperate to see her? His name is. . ." she glanced up at Jack who held up his hospital badge again. "Jack Shephard. OK, yeah . . ."

She looked to Jack again and directed her next remark to him. "The nurse is asking now."

"Thank you," he responded, very grateful. She quickly returned her attention to the phone. Nellie was back with an answer. Moment of truth. "Yeah? OK. OK, can do. Thanks, Nell."

Kristi hung up and spoke to Jack. "OK, you're in luck. In fact, you don't even have to wait out here in the lobby. She said to take you back to her office, so follow me." Kristi escorted him back. Her attitude had changed from skeptical to hospitable. "You want a coffee, drink, something?" she offered. Jack just shook his head. "OK, well, have a seat," she gestured to the guest chairs across from what must be Juliet's desk. "She's in with a patient now. Just sit tight." And with that, Kristi closed the office door about halfway, returned to her station, and left Jack alone.

It wasn't a corner office, but it had a window. In hospital office assignment hierarchy, Jack knew it was a good sign someone as young as she was had an office with a view. He caught himself thinking that the office wasn't as big as his office was, but quickly worked to tamp down those arrogant thoughts. He glanced around. A pair of running shoes and a gym bag sat in a corner, and seemed to have gathered a fine layer of dust. Ah, he was quite familiar with this -- the best intentions of working out and staying healthy all butting up against the reality of an insane schedule.

One wall of the office was filled with dense texts and medical journals. A corkboard dominated the other wall, and it was filled with thank you cards, ultrasounds, baby photos, happy families of all colors. He smiled to look at it. He remembered how her work on the island had haunted her, and now seeing what it was she did here – in the real world – it made what she had to do there even more poignant.

He listened for anyone coming down the hall. Hearing nothing, he decided to walk around to the other side of her desk and snoop there. Three framed photos caught his eye. The first was of a woman and small boy on the beach. The boy was waving, his hand covered in sand. He figured this must be Juliet's sister and nephew he'd heard so much about.

The next picture pretty much confirmed that. Juliet was standing with the same woman from the beach photo. They were in front of a Christmas tree, Juliet wearing a red reindeer nose, and her sister (if, indeed that's who it was), wearing a reindeer antler headband. Both sisters were smiling the wide-mouthed, half-lidded smiles of the slightly drunk. Juliet's arm was extended toward the camera, and he realized this was a "self portrait." He chuckled at the happiness of it. The date digitally stamped in the lower right-hand corner indicated the picture was taken less than a year ago.

The third photo was of an older couple, all kitted out in Miami Dolphins paraphernalia standing behind a tiny Hibachi grill in a parking lot somewhere. Her parents, he assumed, tailgating at a football game.

Everything else on the desk, from the manila folders to the three-ring, multi-tabbed binder, to the open and annotated medical journal, seemed of the professional variety. Tucked up right next to her computer monitor was a fourth, smaller framed photo. He peered in at it. Another ultrasound photo. He wondered what made this patient so special as to rate a framed photo on the desk instead of a tacked-up photo on the wall. Maybe her first success story? But the digital date stamped on this one marked it from earlier this summer.

Stuck to the frame of her monitor was a pink Post-It note. "EAT YOUR LUNCH!! XOXO –J" was scrawled on the Post-It. Jack shook his head. He'd never pictured Juliet as the 'write-notes-to-yourself" type. And if the open carton of granola-topped yogurt and the half-eaten apple sitting in the middle of the desk were any indication, she was also the "ignore-the-notes-written-to-yourself" type.

He heard voices outside in the hall. A male voice he didn't recognize was followed by Juliet's. "I think we'll be OK for a little bit at least," he heard her say. Murmuring from the other voice. He heard Juliet again, "Yeah, just come get me right away if the heart rate drops below…" the door was being opened slowly. He quickly retreated to the other side of the desk. His heart leapt. Another moment of truth coming up.

She stepped into the office. All in one piece. She was draped in a surgical gown over scrubs, with a mask around her neck, and a surgical cap on her head. She smiled warmly. "Jack."

He realized he'd been holding his breath. Of course she was OK. Of course she was all in one piece. Somewhere deep in his subconscious he supposed he'd been worried that whatever it was that had happened to her at the Swan would have somehow left her broken, but no, here she was. Just fine. He'd been standing dumbly just long enough for her to remove her mask and cap. He was shaking his head and grinning stupidly. She stepped toward him and they embraced. He felt an eerie déjà vu to the time he'd showed up at her house a week ago (?) 27 years ago (?) in the Dharma barracks. But not exactly. Something he couldn't quite put a finger on was different about her, and he was confused.

She broke away from the hug. "Jack," she repeated, while removing her gown. "How _are _you?"

She was pregnant. Obviously. **That's** what was different. He was flabbergasted. "I'm fine," he mumbled. Wow. "How are _you_?" he asked. "You're having a baby!" Master of the obvious, he chided himself.

"Yeah," she said, and smiled what was probably the biggest, most genuine smile he'd ever seen out of her. "A boy -- December 16," she added.

He felt sky high. He'd found Hurley and now Juliet, and he was 2 for 2. His plan had worked – for some of them, at least. Hurley was still an amazingly rich lottery winner. But now he was an amazingly rich lottery winner with a string of good, happy luck, a solid grounding in reality, and a positive outlook on life. Juliet had never been to the island, had a desk full of family photos, worked to create life instead of assist death, and was soon to be a mother herself.

He was busy mentally patting himself on the back for his outstanding achievement. His plan had worked.

"Sit, sit," she waved at the chair in front of her desk and went behind the desk to sit herself. She picked up her yogurt carton, sniffed it, and began to eat. "Hope you don't mind," she apologized. He sat, shook his head, and tried to regain his bearings.

"When did you remember?" she asked.

"The day the plane crashed," he answered. "You?"

"Same."

Now what? He wondered. He'd found her, she was OK, what else was there to do?

"I tracked down Hurley," he said. "And I . . . not everyone was on the plane this time." She nodded. Of course she realized that. He went on, "I think it's important to find everyone. I guess I'm kind of stuck. Sun, Jin, Sayid . . . they aren't even in the States." She was still nodding hesitantly. He soldiered on. "Kate's on the run." She blinked in response, pursed her lips, but didn't say anything. And so he kept on . . . "I wouldn't begin to know where to find Sawyer," he felt himself wince at delivering this news.

A look of confusion crossed her face, but what she said was, "James is here."

"In Miami??" he asked.

Of course, he thought. _Of course he's here_. Sawyer hadn't needed Hurley's "Dude, have you looked up Juliet?" prompting like he did. Jack figured that as soon as Sawyer's memories returned, he hopped on the first plane to Miami to look her up. He had a humorous mental image of Sawyer trying to talk his way past Kristi at reception. Sawyer didn't have the hospital ID badge or the "former colleagues" card to play the way Jack did, and he wondered if he'd frightened Kristi with his disheveled look and angry talk. On second thought, he imagined instead that Sawyer had easily turned on the charm and smoothly talked Kristi into letting him back into Juliet's office. In fact, Kristi was probably still dreaming of the handsome, flirty, mysterious stranger who had shown up asking for Dr. Burke.

And then Sawyer had gotten back here, and Juliet had walked in and how long did his relief last? How long was he, like Jack, comforted to see her in one piece, healthy, happy, in her proper place in the world? How long before he realized that in this new world a big part of what seemed to make her so happy was her own impending motherhood? Jack didn't know who to feel sorrier for – Sawyer whose memories returned only to have his hopes dashed? Or Juliet's husband (boyfriend?) who now had a wife whose memories made it seem to her that she'd been with another man less than a week ago. And this poor bastard had a new enemy in Sawyer, to boot.

He felt his sky-high mood crash. So much for his perfect record.

"_I had a life here!" _

He remembered the raw pain in Sawyer's voice, and even more acutely, the physical pain they both felt beating each other senseless. Jack had taken that life from him, and thrown him back here. What sort of life did he have now? The guy with the long rap sheet, no marketable skills, and the woman he loved off-limits. He thought again of all the people who'd been on the plane a second time around -- Boone, Charlie, Ana Lucia. He hadn't saved them, had he? And the ones who hadn't been on the plane? Kate, he'd discovered to his relief, had killed no one when she blew up her house. But she'd blown the house up all the same, and was nowhere to be found.

His desire to find the rest of them was dwindling. Was it possible that Hurley and Juliet were the only ones who had gotten "fixed" through all of this?

Juliet was nodding. He realized she was answering his "In Miami?" question, and that all his mental images and mood swings and disappointment had flashed through his brainpan in less than the time it took for her to answer his question.

She took a breath as if to begin speaking, but was interrupted by a loud knock at the door.

"Dr. B, You said to come get you if Mrs. Fay's baby's heartbeat . . ."

"It dropped?" she asked, alarmed. The man at the door nodded.

She stood up, addressed Jack. "I've got to run. This could be awhile." She looked like there was more to say. What now? He thought. She pulled a business card from a desk drawer and wrote on the back of it. "That's James' cell number. Give him a call. He'd be interested to hear from you. I'll talk to you later, OK?" and she was out the door.

Less than an hour later, he waited nervously. At first, he'd been reluctant to call. He couldn't imagine Sawyer would ever want to hear his voice. "He'd be interested to hear from you," she'd said. _Interested_. Not glad, not excited, not happy. _Interested_. Yeah, like Yoko Ono would be _interested_ to hear from Mark David Chapman, he thought. For the second time that day, though, he'd thought, "Man up," and decided to call. Once he'd made up his mind, he sat staring at the scrawl on the back of the business card. Good Lord, she had miserable handwriting. Once he deciphered it, he made the call.

And now here he was at a coffeehouse of Sawyer's choosing. He was more than a little relieved Sawyer had chosen a public place. Jack wondered if would have had the balls to go through with meeting Sawyer in private. At least here he wouldn't get beaten to death. Every time the door to the coffee shop opened, he steeled himself for the inevitable. Would Sawyer just flat out punch him in the face? He supposed he deserved it. After a handful of false alarms, the door opened again, and he faced yet another moment of truth.

Sawyer caught his eye right away, and headed toward him. Jack stood, braced himself for impact. Sawyer stuck out his right hand and gave him a warm smile and a hearty handshake. Ohhhhhhkay. Not a bad start. But Jack was still on guard. It was entirely possible Sawyer was just lulling him into a false sense of security.

They ordered coffees, and Jack was somewhat taken aback by the detailed questions Sawyer asked the baristas and the complicated drink he ended up ordering. Drinks paid for and sitting at a table, Jack started. "Never pegged you as a fancy coffee aficionado."

"Well, I work at a coffeehouse in L.A. Hurley comes in there from time to time," he answered.

Jack laughed. "He's been trying to figure out where he knows you from. Next time he comes in, you should hook him up with a special drink or something."

Sawyer shrugged. "Well, I don't know if I'm going back there. It's . . . well, it's not like I exactly quit, but," he sighed deeply but smiled at the same time. "Guess you could say I got some things to work out."

Jack nodded. This actually wasn't a bad start. If Sawyer was in transition and looking for some purpose in life, he could actually be quite useful.

"So, how's life, Doc?" Sawyer was asking.

"It's fine. It's just. . ." no point in not just coming right out and asking. He felt his spirits rise again. Sawyer was being so cordial; maybe they could do this together. So, he launched right in. "Not everyone was on the plane. I'm trying to track everybody down. And then . . ." Sawyer was shaking his head at him, chuckling, but that was no indication to shut up, so he went on. "And then, I think we should try to go back. The plane _did_ crash, Sawyer, and we know what's going to happen to those people. There's this woman in LA. Eloise Hawking. She's who got us back last time, and I bet she could do it again."

Throughout Jack's whole diatribe, Sawyer kept up the head shaking and chuckling. So Jack stopped talking. Maybe he had something to say.

"You want to talk me into going _back_?" he asked. He didn't sound angry, simply disbelieving.

"Yeah," Jack said, simply. Of course. There were people they might be able to save.

"You gotta be kidding me. Ain't no way in hell I'm going back there. No way I'm letting you fuck with my life again."

Typical, thought Jack. Same old, same old. What "life" was he talking about? This "life" where he left his job as some sort of minimum-wage coffee boy? Damn, he thought, I'm a surgeon for crying out loud, and I'd be willing to give it up. He thought maybe Sawyer had changed. He thought maybe those three years in Dharma with Juliet had made him a better man, but here he was again, looking out for #1. Asshole. And so, he said as much.

"Fuck with your _life_?" Jack spluttered. "Your _life_? I'm sorry, but I don't see how serving people coffee is much of a life to write home about. And didn't you just say that you _quit_ that?"

It was mean-spirited, and he absolutely expected Sawyer to respond angrily. Instead, nothing was written on his face but pure confusion. "Thought you said you'd talked to Juliet," he said.

Yes. Yes, he had, and, no, he hadn't said anything to her about going back -- that would have been asking too much of her. So he answered honestly. "I did, but not for long. Maybe only a few minutes. She had a patient."

At that, something that seemed like recognition lighted on Sawyer's face. And then he laughed. Not a simple chuckle, but a real, honest-to-God outright laugh.

"What's so funny?" Jack asked.

"You. I see what's going on now," he answered. "You just ain't put two and two together yet, Doc.

Two and two? What the hell was talking about? Before he had a chance to ask for clarification, Sawyer's phone rang.

Glancing at the screen, Sawyer smiled. "All right," he said. "Here's the lady in question now." Jack took it to mean Juliet was on the phone. Probably trying to warn Sawyer in advance. He could imagine her on the other end: "Sorry to bother you, but Jack is in town, and will probably try to get in touch with you." But he only had Sawyer's end of the conversation to go on.

"Yeah . . . I'm here with him now . . . Oak Street Coffee . . . I checked, you'll be glad to know they're doin' the hazelnut decaf, now." That comment struck Jack as odd, but he let it pass.

Sawyer kept talking. "Well, he's trying to convince me to go back with him… to the Island…" Sawyer was smiling broadly now, at whatever response she had to that.

He went on "Well, I told him I'd think about it." (LIE! Thought Jack.)

"Maybe if I could find someone around here to watch _Rocky_ with me, I might consider sticking around." Jack could actually hear Juliet giggling at the other end of the line. Was he _flirting_ with her? How awkward, thought Jack. How _inappropriate_.

"Yeah, I don't know. Hold on a sec," Sawyer was now saying. He looked at Jack. "You got a place to stay tonight?" he asked. Jack shook his head.

"He says no," Sawyer now said into the phone. "OK, let me ask." Again, he looked to Jack. "Dinner plans?" he asked. Again, Jack shook his head.

"Nope," Sawyer reported to Juliet on the phone. "Well, there's a frozen lasagna. I could stop off and get some salad stuff. Anything else you can think of? … New York Superfudge Chunk, of course. Wouldn't think of leaving the store without it . . . What time you gonna be home tonight?" By this point, Jack's head was spinning. Were they _together_? How was that even _remotely_ possible? "OK, love you," Sawyer said into the phone, possibly confirming Jack's suspicions. His next remarks confirmed them for good.

"So, Doc, you can stay with us, have dinner at our place if you want."

Jack was just shaking his head. "Let me get this straight," he said. "_You guys are together_?" He was absolutely dumbstruck at this news. "How . . . I thought . . . Juliet said she just got her memories back last week."

"Yeah, me too, When the plane crashed."

"But, then, how . . . so, you all just decided to get back together? That doesn't make _any sense_."

Sawyer laughed. "Nah, man. We met on a plane back in March, and just sort of hit it off."

March? Jack thought. December 16. For some reason, he remembered very clearly when she had said the baby was due. He started the mental calculations.

Sawyer was no dummy. "You doin' the math in your head?" he interrupted his additions. "That ain't polite, man."

But he'd completed his calculations. "Damn," said Jack. "You guys didn't waste any time."

For the first time since they'd been here, he saw Sawyer's expression harden. Had Jack just crossed some sort of unmarked line?

"Didn't _waste any time_?" Sawyer threw his words back at him. "Only three damn years, Jackass. Not that they were a total waste, probably the best years of my life. But now? Now that I got the best part of that life here in the real world? I can't fucking believe we were stuck there for so long. You have no idea. No place to go. No life outside that damn fence. Always wondering. About you people. Juliet -- she missed her family so much. We did the best we could, but . . . damn, man." Sawyer glanced around the coffee shop. At the people walking in and out, the harried mom shushing her toddlers, the hipsters on laptops in the corner, the old man reading the sports page two tables down. "Damn, the real world is an amazing place. You got no idea."

"I'm sorry," Jack mumbled,

"Bygones," Sawyer waved away his apology. "But ain't no way you're gettin' me back there."

"Yeah, sure, I understand." And he did. He felt his spirits lift again. This day had been quite the rollercoaster. But now he was 3 for 3. Hurley – rich and not crazy. Juliet – happy, healthy, home. Sawyer – responsible man, soon-to-be father.

Sawyer had to go. He had to get salad fixings. He was supposed to drive Juliet's dad to some kind of doctor's appointment (a chore that seemed absolutely, patently absurd – _Sawyer _driving Juliet's _dad_ to the doctor. The world was on its ear. In a good way).

So Jack whiled away the afternoon, and showed up at their apartment for dinner. Juliet greeted him at the door. Another hug in another entryway -- they were going to have to stop meeting like this. Dinner was just a Stouffer's lasagna and salad, but it would do. They caught up. What had changed? Why didn't she go to the Island? Why wasn't Sawyer on the plane?

Ice cream for dessert, and they retreated to the living room to keep talking. He sat in an armchair. He was somewhat surprised to see Sawyer and Juliet sit at exact opposite ends of the sofa, far apart from each other. But within seconds of sitting, she'd stretched her legs out on the couch and onto Sawyer's lap. He rubbed her feet without any commentary. Jack felt an acute twinge of jealousy. Everything seemed so damned easy for them. How was it even possible? As they caught up on the three other years – from that other life – Jack shared his descent into drugs and alcohol. They talked about their time on the island. The timeshifts, Dharmaville, Miles, Jin . . . Jack felt more and more jealous. They finished each other's stories. They made eye contact and chuckled at inside jokes he wasn't privy to. And what did he have to share with them? He felt achingly lonely. And bone tired. He'd taken the red eye here and the rollercoaster day was beginning to wear on him.

Noticing his weariness, Juliet swung her feet off the couch, stood up, and said "Let's call it a night."

Sawyer showed him down the hall to the guest room. Clean sheets were folded on the bed. "Sorry the bed's not made. I'll help you," he said, and they put the sheets on in silence. Jack took a pointed look at the crib stashed in the corner of the room. Sawyer noticed.

"Good thing you came when you did, else this room woulda been occupied."

Jack just nodded. More jealousy.

Sawyer kept on. "I put that damned thing together about a week ago. Stupid ass me, puts it together out in the living room, then it wouldn't fit through the damn door. Had to take it apart, put it together again. What a fucking pain in the ass."

Jack chuckled. There was still some of "old" Sawyer in there. It made him feel a little better.

"Well, bathroom's down the hall. Night, Doc," Sawyer shook his hand.

"Night, James," Jack answered.

He headed straight for the bathroom. He could immediately hear them in the kitchen. Stacking dishes, murmuring, chuckles, laughter. He felt tense. They were talking about him he was absolutely sure of it. They were chuckling over him, laughing at him. Well, good for them, he thought.

* * *

Once he'd gotten Jack settled in the guest room, James returned to the kitchen. Juliet was unloading the dishwasher, removing silverware from the basket and placing it in the drawer. He began unloading dishes and stacking them in the cabinet.

"You know what I been thinkin' but haven't said out loud?" he asked. She shook her head. "Thank God for dishwashers. Holy shit, I ain't never gonna take this for granted again." He gave the dishwasher a pat.

She giggled. "The microwave. This morning I was heating up oatmeal and was thinking, 'This is so amazingly easy.' I love you, buddy!" She blew a kiss to the microwave.

He laughed loudly. "Voicemail," he added.

"Cuisinart," she chipped in.

"TV."

"TiVo."

"Come on," he said. "Not having a TV wasn't _**all**_ bad."

"No, it wasn't," she winked and smiled flirtatiously.

He changed the subject. "You know what Jack said to me today? He said, 'I don't see how serving people coffee is much of a life'."

She shook her head, "James, don't . . ." she started.

He held up a hand. "It's OK. He's kinda right, you know? I been thinking. What am I gonna do with myself? What am I good for?" She began to speak. "Stop," he said. "Stop interrupting. I know you're taking a bunch of time off, but when you start back to work, well, what if I stay home. Take care of the baby?"

She blinked. She smiled. "Well, you know, I feel it's important to run a criminal background check on anyone who cares for my child. I'm not sure you'll pass."

He laughed and stepped closer to her. "I can provide other services, special favors, if it helps you make up your mind." He took her hands. "Look, I ain't sayin' it would be permanent, but I don't know exactly what I wanna do. Why get some shit job just so I can say I make money? What the hell's the point of that? This just feels right. And it's more important than anything else I could do. Maybe I could go to school nights or something."

"Sounds perfect to me," she answered. She kissed him, he kissed back.

"Let's go to bed," he offered suggestively.

"Jack's right down the hall," she said.

He chuckled. For a few minutes, he'd honestly forgotten he was still here. "St. Jack's a doctor," he said. "I have a sneaking suspicion he realizes we've done this sort of thing before."

**This ended up being a lot longer than I had planned, but it was fun to write flabbergasted and befuddled Jack. Poor fella.**

**So, there's a GLARING omission here. If you didn't catch it – yay! But I'll go ahead and tell you what it is anyway – Claire! OK, so the conceit is that if they were alive at the moment the bomb went off, in this new reality, they never got on the flight. But WTH is up with Claire? I don't know if she is alive or dead, so . . . And, of course, in reality (such that it is) she would probably be the first person Jack tried to track down (along with his dad), because in addition to being his sister, she'd be a way to get back to Kate, I think. So, I tried and tried a way to incorporate that into this, but every way I did it took the focus away from Sawyer & Juliet, and sort of sent the story in a different direction, and that's totally not the point. So, poor Claire, she is just ignored here. **

**Oh, and while I am at a good, lengthy author's note, I should make some special thanks to wntkno (my first "you're good at this!" confidence builder to keep me going); Mad Steph (she helped with some bartender stuff way back when); eyeon (she's this story's Mrs. Hawking, keeping me on my timeline toes); and Aurora 1020 and im so lost (who have been very good sounding boards for some of the specifics and 'what to do in the epilogues'). And also thanks to everyone else who's just taken the time to read my little hiatus-filler.**

**Thanks!**


	25. Dharma Reunion

**OK, another epilogue! So, there is a "frame" around this story, but otherwise, it is a bunch of flashbacks to all different times, and not necessarily in order. I was just kind of experimenting with a non-straightforward method of storytelling for my own enjoyment. And now you have to pay the price. I hope it doesn't cause nosebleeds! I promise, the next epilogue will be more straightforward. **

**Thanks to eyeon who gave me the idea a very, very long time ago it seems, to get Jin and Sun back into the story. And, well . . . to everyone who suggested baby names. Now I have to apologize because I sure can't remember who suggested the one I finally went with. **

**And thanks to everyone who keeps reading. And reading. And reading. I appreciate your patience! **

April 23, 2007

James sat back. He wanted to take a mental snapshot of this night. It was the first time just the four of them had been together since . . . well, since sometime in July 1977, as odd as that was (and he was long since past shaking his head at the oddness of his life).

Way back when, it had been a completely unremarkable evening. He'd come home from a late shift to find Juliet and Jin sitting at the dining room table. She'd recently decided to go beyond dirty Korean jokes and actually learn the language, and they were having lessons. Their heads were bent in concentration over a piece of paper. He bent to give Juliet a kiss, and she said something unintelligible in Korean. It made Jin laugh with his hand over his mouth. As James headed to the kitchen, he wondered if Jin had been laughing at Juliet's incompetence or if she'd actually managed to say something witty in Korean. He put together a sandwich for a late dinner. Not five minutes later, Miles came barging in from his house next door, bitching out Jin for eating the last of . . .something. It _had_ been thirty years ago. How was James supposed to remember what it had been?

"Trying to learn something, here," Juliet interrupted Miles' and Jin's little Odd Couple spat. Sawyer gestured Miles back to the kitchen and fixed a sandwich for him. The two men ate their sandwiches in companionable silence. From time to time they could hear Jin's patient, "No. Not like that," and he'd sound out some word. And that was it. Nothing to it. Just another night in Dharmaville. Jack and the gang had shown up four days later.

Now here they were again, on a warm, late April Miami night, sitting on the back deck of the house he and Juliet moved into a year and a half ago. Celebrating Miles' 30th birthday. They'd had cake and ice cream much earlier in the day – in part so Sun could enjoy the celebration before jetting off to Milan, but even more importantly, because no one thought it was a good idea to feed Jay and Ji Yeon ice cream and cake so close to bedtime. So, they did cake and ice cream at lunch. Juliet made a big deal to point out that, indeed, Miles' cake had birthday candles just as she promised way back on his actual day of birth that it would.

With official celebrations long since over, they were just sitting on the back deck, chatting, laughing, drinking. And **_this_** was the mental snapshot he wanted. His first real family. Three years had passed, but due to the insanity of time travel, they were all the exact same age they'd been that night 30 years ago. Jin had shorter hair, and a more relaxed look, knowing for 100% certain that his wife and child where A-OK. Miles looked much more himself in cargo pants, Chuck Taylors, and a vintage t-shirt than he'd ever looked in a Dharma jumpsuit. Juliet? Well, she'd probably tell you that the Miami humidity was doing no favors to her hair, which was escaping her ponytail in small ringlets. And he wouldn't mention she was looking somewhat rumpled after her adventure wrangling Jay into the bath tonight. Because when she caught his eye over the rim of her wine glass, it really didn't matter.

Miles had been going on at length about the new girl he was seeing. "It may turn out to be something serious," he'd said. After Miles went on for some time length about how great she was, how fun, good looking, and smart, Jin had finally had enough.

"So, this Dorothy, she is blind?"

"What? No. What made you think that?!?!" Miles asked.

"She is dating you. I just thought . . ." Jin trailed off as the group laughed. Miles held up the ring, index, and middle fingers on his right hand. "Read between the lines, Jin, read between the lines."

Juliet finished her wine, set the glass down, and said in Miles' defense, "Of course she's not blind. Miles is a very attractive man. Jin, that's a horrible thing to say."

"Thank you, Juliet," Miles smiled, genuinely grateful. James chuckled. He could see what was coming from a mile away, but Miles, out of practice dealing with Juliet, was completely oblivious.

"You're quite welcome, Miles," said Juliet. "I mean, no way she's blind. I just assumed she was deaf. I can't imagine any woman wanting to deal with your mouth . . ."

"Ho ho ho," said Miles, clearly not amused, as Jin collapsed laughing. Miles didn't even bother with "read between the lines" as he stuck his right middle finger in Juliet's face.

"Daddy, I think there's a lion in my room."

James turned to see Jay standing at the sliding glass door. Geez. Hadn't they worn him out today? Was he really not asleep yet?

"I'll go," said Juliet, standing up. She took Jay's hand. "Let's go, buddy, let's see what we can do about this lion." The wandered off, closing the sliding door to the deck behind them.

The men sat in silence for awhile. Miles eventually turned to Jin. "So, how'd everything go yesterday?"

"Fine, I guess," Jin answered. "Juliet says we will not know anything for two weeks."

Miles chuckled. He said, "You know, we've been through a lot of weird shit together, but I gotta say, nothing is weirder than the fact that your wife," here he indicated James, "knocked up your wife," and here a gesture for Jin. "And now she's at it again! That's freaking bonkers." James and Jin both sort of shrugged. Maybe with no reaction from them, Miles would drop it. No luck. Miles kept on. "I mean, I know the reality is all clinical and stuff, but the mental image. . . I mean, _phew_. Those are some damn fine women."

James had the urge (one he'd often suppressed in their Dharma days) to bop Miles in the kisser. Maybe he would have, too, had not Jin been closer to Miles. Jin clamped a hand down on Miles' shoulder, and judging by Miles' reaction, it looked as though Jin was employing some kind of Vulcan death grip. "Uncle!" yelped Miles.

The truth was, though, Jin and Sun were in town for fertility treatment, and when they'd all realized their visit fell over Miles' birthday, the idea to have a Dharmatimes reunion was a natural conclusion. There really was no reason for them to come all the way here for something that could just as easily be done in Seoul, but it wasn't their first visit here for the very same reason.

When their memories returned, Sun was in the odd position of being thrilled to be back with Jin. In this reality, they'd never been apart, and she had difficulty reconciling the relief to see him again after three long years of believing he was dead with the simple fact that they'd only been apart for about three hours (she'd gone to see a movie) when their memories returned. Even more difficult for her, though, was the loss of Ji Yeon. Mourning their little girl, the Kwons were still faced with the fertility issues that had dogged them for the past year. Jin knew the truth behind those issues now, though, and suggested giving Juliet a call. He didn't add that he was more than a little eager to try to reconnect with his friends of the past three years, and Juliet was a start. He didn't realize that the phone call would put him right back in touch with Sawyer, too.

James remembered Juliet coming back to the apartment, somewhat dazed, one day in early October. "Sun and Jin called today," she said.

"I told ya that if people wanted to find us, they'd find us! Man, I love it when I'm right, and you're wrong. So, what's up with them?"

She ignored his gloating. "They want to fly over for fertility treatments," she said. "I tried to convince them not to. Low sperm count, they can deal with that in Korea. They don't need to fly all the way out here. Plus, all the workups, preliminary tests . . . I told them I didn't think there was time before I stop work."

"Yeah, what did they say to that?"

"They wanted to know why I was stopping work."

"And you said?" he asked.

"I didn't say anything. I just told them I'd do whatever I could to help them."

He looked at her curiously, and so she said, "James, they've lost a child. We've gained one. I'm not sure how to go about telling them, but I decided then -- I need to do what I can to help them. So, if they want my help, they've got it."

When the Kwons arrived in Miami in mid-October, James felt immense joy at seeing Jin again. They kept up a constant patter on the way back from the airport, and James felt for sure that this was what it must be like to have a brother. They kept on reminiscing until late in the evening when James eventually said, "We really should try to find Miles." As soon as the words escaped his mouth he caught Juliet's eye and resulting smirk.

"I thought they'd find _us_ if they really wanted to," she remarked. "Man, I love it when I'm right, and you're wrong!"

"Yeah, but come on, it's Miles," he insisted. "We gotta find Miles!"

Not long after, Juliet went off to bed, after getting Sun settled in the extra bedroom. James and Jin stayed up until the wee hours, drinking beer, Googling Miles, and eventually placing a series of ridiculous "Is your refrigerator running? "Better go catch it!" crank calls. Miles played along gamely, realizing after the second call who the perpetrators were.

For James, if seeing Jin again after so many years (or however you measured the time that had passed) was like reconnecting with a brother, seeing Sun again was somewhat more problematic. Face it, they'd never been on the greatest of terms. By the time he'd spent three years in Dharmaville with Jin, though, he felt like he probably knew Sun better than any woman he'd ever known. Excepting Juliet, of course. But Sun didn't know him any better than she had on the day she'd last seen him three years ago.

"Jin says you kept him sane. He says you were his friend and are a good man," she offered. She left unsaid "I'm not sure if I buy it, but Jin says it's true, and I trust him." He'd have to prove himself to her, and wasn't really sure how. Plus, he could tell she was trying to hide it, but seeing him with Juliet clearly boggled her mind. At one point, he reached out to hold Juliet's hand and noticed Sun staring and then shaking her head in disbelief. Sun seemed to hold genuine affection for Juliet, though, and that, along with the fact that Jin was providing his seal of approval had to be the way to eventually win over Sun.

Anyway, despite all of Juliet's fretting over running them too quickly through workups and preliminaries, they left the States in late October, and called a few weeks later to say everything had been successful. James chuckled. Juliet had been this way about cars, too. She was always sure something was not quite right, worried she'd missed an important step. Inevitably, though, everything would turn out just fine, and he'd chuckle at her endless worries and perfectionism. And so it was still.

In late July, Jin and Sun welcomed a little girl they named Na-young. When they talked to Sun, she said, "I know it sounds crazy, but she looks just like Ji Yeon did." James held his tongue when they talked to the Kwons, but when they hung up the phone, he said to Juliet, "All babies look alike." She just stared at him in the way she did when she didn't agree with him, but didn't care to make an argument of it. So he added, "Except Jay, of course."

"Of course," she said.

Over the next year, though, Sun kept it up. She told them she caught herself calling the baby Ji Yeon all the time. She would preface every conversation with some version of "I know you think I'm crazy" or "I'm sure it is just what I want to see" or "I realize there is no way it's possible," until on Na-young's first birthday, Hurley flew to Seoul and got to meet the baby. He confirmed the impossible -- it wasn't just Sun seeing things. This baby looked exactly like Ji Yeon. "I think it's probably her, dude," he said. "I don't think you're crazy, Sun. Trust me, I know crazy."

So "Na-young" officially became "Ji Yeon," and although the Kwons had to make up some crazy cover story about Jin's (fake) recently deceased great-aunt, and their deep (fake) desire to honor her, eventually everyone bought it. Now Ji Yeon was nearly two, and Sun (and Hurley) had absolutely no doubt it was the same little girl. But, Sun pointed out, she was actually happier, more confident, and more social than she'd ever been before. It probably didn't hurt that she had a loving and doting dad and a mom not hell-bent on revenge.

The Kwons were now back, hoping to provide Ji Yeon with a little brother or sister. And if had gone well over the past week, they'd be sharing the good news in a few weeks. A few weeks, James now realized, that he'd have to listen to Juliet agonize and explain in nit-picking, minute detail everything that could possibly go wrong, everything she hadn't done _quite right_, and how the whole thing was sure to fail. He was sure that when they called to say Sun was pregnant, Juliet would chalk the whole thing up to a grand stroke of luck. And he would roll his eyes.

* * *

Lion-in-the-room crisis averted, Jay settled, Juliet listened in at the door to the room Jin and Ji Yeon were sharing. Silence on that front. She jogged downstairs, and stopped off in the kitchen for a bottle of wine and few beers from the fridge, before stepping out onto the deck. James looked at her in question, and she nodded. That was the "All OK up there?" "Yeah, he's back to sleep," conversation. She handed James and Miles fresh beers, and began to pour more wine for herself and Jin. "Sounds like Ji Yeon's sound asleep," she reported to him.

She took her seat and turned to Miles. "I've got a bone to pick with you Miles," she started. "Guess what Jay asked me? 'Mommy, why Uncle Miles put his finger in your face?' He wants to know why you flipped me the bird. We invite you to our home for one night and you corrupt our son."

"_**I'm**_ corrupting your son?" pooh-poohed Miles. "You kidding me?" He leaned in closer to her. "I'm sorry, but have you met your child's father? Or listened to him for any length of time? I'm surprised Jay's first words weren't 'sonofabitch'."

"Jesus Christ! I'm fucking workin' on it you little asshole!" James yelped in mock indignation.

When they'd recovered from laughter, Juliet looked seriously at Miles. Miles loved Miami, so he came to visit several times a year. He was surprisingly good with Jay. He'd first visited when Jay was little more than a year old and volunteered to stay with him so she and James could go on a date. She remembered exchanging a "He's got to be kidding look" with James. Miles caught the look and was indignant. "You think I'm any worse with a kid than he is?" he said, indicating James.

He was still Miles, a talky, whiny, chattering cynic. But he was more relaxed. Knowing the truth about his parents seemed to have mellowed him out a great deal. He no longer had the jumpy, nervous energy that used to drive her bananas.

He seemed really crazy about this new girl he'd been seeing. She could tell that as excited and happy he was to talk about her, he was actually trying to keep a lid on how great she really was, how happy she really made him. Good for Miles, she thought. Good that someone could give as well as she got and keep Miles on his toes.

"So, Miles," she asked him now, "tell us more about this new girl. Should I be expecting a wedding invitation in the mail?"

"No you should not," he stated flatly.

"Why not? I thought she was great," Juliet inquired.

"Oh, she's great, and yeah, I guess I can see marrying her, but you've got another think coming if you think you'll be invited. I'm still really hurt, you know."

Now James piped in. "Ah fuck, man." Here Miles waved his hands at James, gesturing like one of Bob Barker's girls on the _Price is Right_. Juliet realized he was still trying to make a point about the cursing and the alleged "corruption of Jay" through the flipping-the-bird incident. But James ignored him and kept right on talking. "Are you still pissed about that? That was two years ago, and how many times do I got to tell ya, it wasn't a big thing. Jesus, you're as bad as a chick."

"I agree with Miles, we should have been there," said Jin. Great. Another precinct heard from.

The "thing" in question was their wedding. Or, well, "wedding," or whatever you wanted to call it. It wasn't a "big thing," a mere formality, really. James now started going on and on about how if _**he**_ had had any say about it, they would have had a huge blowout in a church and a cake and a band and a limo and . . . and it was all a Big Huge Lie, and the more detailed he got about how he had always dreamed of tuxes and flowers and the first dance and the open bar and the invitations and the rehearsal dinner, the more obvious it became to both Jin and Miles that he was kidding.

They'd just gone in to the Justice of the Peace one day, and truth be told, she remembered a lot more about the fancy dinner date they went to afterward, and the night they spent in a hotel room while Dad and Nancy kept Jay. What a wonderful night it had been! Jay wasn't yet four months old, and the sheer luxury of sleeping straight on through the night was what she remembered most of all. Sad, really, but true.

Jay was a happy and easygoing baby, but good grief, the boy loved to eat. Many a night she would stumble out of bed to feed him and the logical side of her would say "this won't go on forever," but sometimes it seemed as if it just would. He would never, ever, ever, stop eating.

James, of course, was quick to notice. He helped where he could, but was essentially stuck twiddling his thumbs while Jay ate. And ate and ate and ate. "Lucky bastard," he said one day when Jay was maybe two months old. And eating, as usual.

"You know I don't like that word," she responded.

"He is lucky. Jesus – look where he spends 95% of his waking hours. If you let me do that, I'd be set for life."

She could muster no more than an eyeroll. "You know I didn't mean 'lucky'."

"Oh, 'bastard'? That's what bothers you? I guess it bothers you that back at Thanksgiving I went on and on about how I thought it would be . . .what was the word I used? . . oh yeah, 'tacky,' that's it! Yeah, how I thought it would be tacky to get married when the bride couldn't even bend down to tie her own shoes."

She just stared at him. Jay kept eating.

So, James went on. "Oh, that's right! That wasn't me who said all that. That was you. And, I been watchin'. You seem to be tying your own damn shoes just fine lately. So, until you get over whatever hangup it is you got about getting married, I can call him whatever the hell I want. Besides, you know I didn't mean it that way."

"It's the 21st Century, and I don't see why it's so important to get married," she said. She'd been married. "Trust me. It's not that great." In fact, they'd been over this a million times. It pretty much always ended in a big fight over how he was different from Edmund, how she was different than she used to be and blah blah blah blah blah. It made her panicky to think about even risking it, and she didn't want to do it.

For now, though, all he said was "Fine."

She was kind of hoping for an argument. So she kept up, "Seriously? What's the big deal? It's not Victorian England. Are you worried your illegitimate son won't be able to inherit your vast estates?"

"You're right," he responded. Damn. She really wanted a fight. He kept on, "I'm just sayin', you don't got a leg to stand on when it comes to this one."

She fully expected him to keep harassing her about it, or even worse, to dream up some dramatic, romantic proposal offer. That didn't suit him. It didn't suit them. But, he tucked away his arguments and let it be. He did start the extremely annoying habit of nicknaming Jay. "Chubby bastard." "Drooly bastard," "Bald bastard," "Giggly little bastard." She _hated _it. But James would look at her and dare her to make an issue of it. And she really had no leg to stand on. He kept it up. He would keep it up, she realized, until she gave in.

On their wedding night, lounging in their fancy hotel room, she was so glad she had given in. She'd been so unreasonably fearful. She'd been panicked that somehow getting married would change everything, and she'd be a "wife" again, and back to the old, timid, wallflower version of herself. How utterly irrational, she thought, watching James call Dad and Nancy one last time. She could hear Dad on the other end. "Stop calling us. He's fine. If we need anything, we'll call. Now just have fun."

So, they had no proposal story, no engagement, no wedding, no reception, no party. And even though more than two years had passed, Jin and, especially, Miles were still put out over it.

James was giving Miles a hard time "Ooooooooh. No invitation to your wedding. That hurts sooooo much Miles. Damn, all it means is we ain't gotta spring for a gift. Fine by me." He threw a balled up napkin at Miles. Jin was laughing.

She missed this, she realized. She missed the four of them drinking and laughing and teasing each other about every, single nit-picky thing. She missed the exaggerated dumbfounded look Miles put on whenever anyone said anything he thought was stupid. She missed seeing Jin cover his mouth with his hand whenever he started to laugh at something he thought was inappropriate. Just spending a nice, warm evening with the only three people in the world who knew the whole truth about her.

She wouldn't go back, though. She didn't miss the claustrophobia; she didn't miss being a mechanic; she didn't miss the back-of-the-mind fear that it was all going to fall in like a house of cards (and that's exactly what happened, wasn't it?); she didn't miss not knowing if she'd ever see her family again; she didn't miss wondering "is this all there is? And all there will ever be?"

Tomorrow she'd spend the day with Jin and Ji Yeon, and she'd go to the aquarium with her husband and son. They'd spend most of their time watching the alligators, because Jay was fascinated by them. This weekend, she'd meet her sister and her nephew for a picnic in the park. Jin and Miles would be gone by then, and she'd miss them terribly and start to wonder when they could all get together again, but she wouldn't trade it. Not for anything would she trade it.

**OK, sappy ending I know. Sorry. OK, I still think there is a little more to tell. Actually, I have a lot in mind for them at their next update a few more years down the road, so the next bit may end up being quite long. Thanks for still reading!**


	26. James' Worries

**This pretty much wraps up any questions left outstanding about these guys. I apologize in advance for the non-linearity (which is probably not even a word, but I am too lazy to look it up). It seems I am currently incapable of writing a straightforward narrative. Sorry!**

**Oh yeah, also if you haven't read my other story, there's a teeny tiny part that may not make sense. This isn't a bribe to make you read the other one, just a fair warning. It's not hugely important to the "plot," (such that it is since the "plot" is pretty much over).**

_July 2010_

"You realize that old dude's gay, right?"

"Yeah, Hugo, it's pretty damn obvious," James replied.

"It doesn't, like . . . you know, bother you? Working so closely with him?"

"You realize I ain't gay, right?"

"Well, exactly. Like, if he hits on you or something . . ."

"You think he might say just the right thing, look at me just the right way, and I'll say 'Hell with it,' and switch teams?"

"Stranger things have happened, dude," Hurley noted confidently.

"Nuh uh. Stranger things have _**not**_ happened. Trust me -- you're talking to a guy whose entire life is built on strange things happening. Ain't no way."

"Fine," Hurley replied and added, "He does seem like a good guy." He looked out the window for awhile before remarking. "Thanks for the ride to the airport, dude."

James chuckled. A ride to the airport. It was the absolute least he could do. Hurley had essentially bankrolled his return to the working world. Well, Juliet would insist that he could have done it without Hurley's help. She was probably right, but it was a hell of a lot easier with Moneybags in your corner.

Nearly six years ago, he'd formally quit his job serving coffees and hadn't received a paycheck since. For awhile, because he was officially Bob's junior partner, Bob dutifully sent profit share checks. When Bob wanted to expand further, James put him in touch with Hurley, who was more than happy to oblige. Bob was happy to have a legitimate sugar daddy, and since it was right around the time James and Juliet were looking to buy a house, James went ahead and took back his original $25,000 investment. It would make a good down payment, he figured. Juliet disagreed. "I realize it's been laundered through a coffee shop, but it's still dirty money isn't it?" Well, yeah, what other kind of money did he have?

So, he held on to it. He'd never given up on the habit of visiting Mac down at the Book Nook. When Jay was a baby, he'd usually fall sound asleep on the four-block walk to the shop, and James could spend the afternoon browsing. Eventually, he helped Mac set up an eBay offshoot of the store, and Mac repaid in free books. Even after they'd moved out of the neighborhood and into their house, James still made an effort to help Mac out a few times a week. And when Mac suffered through another rash of shoplifting, James was more than happy to put his old security skills to work. He helped Mac place security cameras in less obvious, more helpful positions. He took over interviewing any new staff Mac hired. And from time to time, he'd come into the shop and simply look intimidating. With shoplifting losses down, Mac's profits rose considerably. He kept paying James in free books, and he used every one of his connections to find any book he ever wanted.

Jay started kindergarten in a little more than a month, leaving James without his full-time job of the past five and a half years. Unfortunately, a little less than two months ago, a pipe burst in Mac's store overnight, ruining about twenty percent of his inventory, and essentially condemning the shop until repairs could be made. When James found out Mac's insurance wouldn't cover the full cost of repairs and loss of inventory, he chipped in his "dirty" 25K. All James asked was a chance to co-manage the store once Jay was in school full-time.

Astounded, though, by Mac's essentially worthless insurance policy, James was further flummoxed by Mac's inefficiency at using his money wisely, or accounting for expenses. Seriously, Bob was a dreadlocked former pot-head, and his business acumen far outstripped poor Mac's. Out of his league, James called up Hurley, who quickly set Mac up with and paid for a top-grade financial manager. He also offered to pay for the remaining expenses Mac's insurance and James' money didn't cover.

Hurley had just come out to see the repairs finally done. And now he was offering even more. What if he bought the vacant storefront next door? Couldn't they set up a coffee shop in there? Bob could help. This was exciting, but for now, strictly between Hurley and James. No sense getting Mac all excited over a plan that had only just been conceived. Better to wait for things to be more stable. They'd have architectural drawings sometime next week. If those seemed feasible, no reason not to buy. He'd probably tell Juliet then, when he had something cool and solid to show off. Or when she finished up this huge clinical trial she was working on. Or he'd at least wait until after Cassidy and Clementine's visit. Maybe after Jay started school. Too many irons in the fire, he thought.

He let Hurley off at the airport curb, and helped him unload his bags.

"I'll be in touch next week," he said, wrapping the big guy in a hug, and pounding him on the back. "Thanks so much for everything, man."

"No problem. Hey, tell Little Dude I'm gonna practice my Hungry, Hungry Hippo – not gonna let him win so easy next time."

"Sure thing."

"Tell Juliet thanks for letting me crash at your place."

"Can do."

"OK, dude, good luck . . . you know with next week and all. It'll be cool, don't worry." With that, Hurley waved, picked up his bags, and headed into the airport.

God, if only it could be so easy. In six days, they were going to drive up to Orlando and meet up with Cassidy and Clementine. They'd spend Friday at Disney. Saturday, Cass was going to a friend's all-day bachelorette party, leaving Clementine in his charge (and, well, Juliet's too) for an extended period for the first time ever.

If that wasn't nerve wracking enough, the true, keeping-him-up-in-the-middle of the night, always-at-the-back-of-his-mind stress was the simple fact that this was the first time any of the other four (C&C, J&J) would meet. According to Kate, "Cassidy is anxious to meet Juliet. I believe her exact words were, 'This woman is either delusional or a moron. Probably both'."

"What'd you say to that?"

"I told her she should say that to Juliet's face. I'd buy tickets to watch the fallout."

Yeah. That's exactly what worried him. Cassidy would never, ever completely forgive him, and would never believe he was anything different than he'd ever been. She had every right, he figured. Plus, despite all that, she pretty much kept her opinions to herself around Clementine, and for that he could never repay her. Kate ended up on the receiving end of most of the "anti-Sawyer" diatribes, and James had the distinct impression that what Kate passed on to him wasn't even the half of it.

Yeah. Well this should be just perfect. A weekend away with the woman who hated his guts more than anyone else in the world, along with the woman who loved him as much as anyone in the world. Neither particularly prone to compromise. Fabulous. Even so, a whole day with Clementine and no Cassidy. Beggars can't be choosers, and it was just another step on his road to right things with his daughter.

Jay must have been no more than a week old when James decided he had to try something to be a part of Clementine's life, even in some small measure. So, he decided to send a Christmas present. He was absolutely clueless what in the world you gave a three-year-old girl, though. If anyone knew, it would be Rachel. Julian had a handful of little girl friends. She'd know. Plus, she was over at the apartment all the time, bringing meals, showing the two clueless new parents how to bathe, burp, soothe a newborn. So he asked her.

"Why do you need a gift for a three-year-old girl?" she asked back.

"She's my daughter."

"You have a three-year-old daughter?" she practically hissed. He nodded assent, and she went on, "Well, why don't you just get her something you know she's interested in."

_Well, no duh, Rachel. That'd help if I knew anything about her._ "I never met her," he answered.

"Never met her???" That actually _was_ hissed. "Does she know about this???" cocking her head in the direction of Juliet, in the next room, reading a magazine/dozing on the couch.

Trick question, thought James. Say "No," and I'm back to square one with suspicious Rachel, in trouble for being the deadbeat dad who doesn't tell his new baby mama about his old baby mama. Say "Yes," and Juliet's in trouble for being the secretive sister not telling big sis all the gory details. With no good options, he went for honesty.

"Of course she knows."

Rachel clearly didn't believe him and eyed him doubtfully for a second. "Hey, Jules," she called out, "what should James get his daughter for Christmas?" Then she looked to James with a "HA! Called your bluff" expression.

"I told him to ask you," came Juliet's reply from the other room. James's turn to look to Rachel with a "HA! Better believe me next time" look of his own.

He ended up sending an Elmo doll along with a Christmas card with his contact information. He never heard back from them, but the package wasn't "returned to sender," and according to UPS tracking, had been delivered. It was a start. He did a little math to figure the best approximation of Clementine's birthday, and sent a gift then, too. Again, no reponse. He tried again the next Christmas, and this time received a handwritten thank you card in return. It only said "_Thank you, James. – Clementine_," but he carried it around with him for weeks before finally setting it up on his dresser.

Then one day, the phone rang. Caller ID indicated an Albuquerque number and for a few frozen seconds, he and Juliet just stared at it. "Pick it up, pick it up!" she instructed once she'd found her tongue.

"Hello?"

"You're never gonna believe who I just had dinner with!" Odd opening. Was it a wrong number? But the voice was familiar . . .

"Kate? Is that you? When did you get out of jail?" He glanced sideways at Juliet, who'd put on one of her blank faces, the one he recognized as the "waiting for all the facts to come in prior to acting on this information" face.

Hurley had come to Kate's rescue with a high-powered team of attorneys. She'd blown up a house – simple property crime – and might have gotten off with a slap on the wrist if she hadn't evaded the authorities for so long. "Dude, you wouldn't believe it, but she got off with a slap on the wrist the other time, too – and that was after a bunch of people got killed," Hurley informed them. He was convinced something similar would go on this time, and hooked her up with the best legal team money could buy. She'd had to do jail time this go 'round, though. "Whoah," Hurley remarked. "Who would've thunk it?" When they got the news, James was almost positive Juliet said, "Serves her right," under her breath. But he didn't press.

Kate was on the phone now, though, and she must be free and clear. "I've been out for a few months now. Jack and I've been . . . working through some things." _That_ was intriguing, but frankly, none of his business. He wouldn't ask. Besides, he could get the latest Jack and Kate gossip from Hurley. So, he waited in silence until she picked up the thread of conversation. "Anyway. I decided to look in on Cass. I promised you I would."

He rolled his eyes, chuckled. "That was a whole different lifetime. You don't gotta do that."

"Yeah, well, I feel like I owe you. I made up a BS story about how you and I used to be neighbors. I put in a good word." All right, he thought. That was something. Kate went on, "Cass says you've been sending gifts."

It took the course of a summer, but Kate kept after it, and eventually convinced Cassidy to agree to a visit – solo. "I don't want you parading around your _lovely wife_ and _precious son_," she spat. James' anger flared. She had every right to be angry at him, but damn it if he was going to let her drag his family into it. Who the fuck did she think she was? Jay wasn't even three for Christ's sake – leave him the hell out of it. But he bit his tongue, swallowed his bile, and agreed to her terms. He'd come on his own.

That meant Kate was to be his airport chauffeur, visit mediator, and all-around conciliator. And _that_ meant a whole other ball of wax to deal with on the Miami end of this twisted ordeal. "I don't know any more to say or do to make you comfortable with this," he told Juliet (going to hang out with two of his most serious ex-lovers and his out-of-wedlock daughter, he realized, wasn't necessarily the wisest of plans). "If it's that bad I'll cancel the trip. I'll tell her I come with you guys or not at all." (He was getting nervous enough about seeing his daughter, anyway. He halfway hoped Juliet would call his bluff and give him an easy out.)

"No. This is my hang up. You go. I'll deal with it. But you better call to check in every hour."

"Seriously?"

"No. Once a day is fine. Or twice. Three times a day, tops."

Thus began his twice yearly visits to Albuquerque. Each visit was a new step – meeting Clementine, telling her he was her father, no longer requiring Kate's intercession, taking Clem to the park on his own, staying at the guest bedroom in Cassidy's house. Lately, Clementine just called him up out of the blue to talk sometimes. He was pretty thrilled. And now – well, a week from now – the most nerve-wracking step – worlds colliding.

It had to go well. It had to. He was a realist. No way Juliet and Cassidy were going to suddenly become best gal pals, but he hoped for civility. He'd spent weeks reminding Juliet about the bitterness and resentment Cassidy still harbored, and how Juliet just needed to roll with the punches and not let Cassidy's bad attitude rile her up. He knew his constant lectures were beginning to irritate his wife. For the most part, his tutorials were received with an eye roll, sometimes with a "Got it – act nice," but also with a "Wait – so I'm not allowed to elbow her in the face? Where's the fun in that?" He'd started in again just yesterday (the visit was only a week away! He had to remind her to Act. Civil.), and was greeted with "Maybe you can clear something up for me. 'Nanny nanny boo boo. Stick your head in doo doo. I got him to marry me and you didn't.' Off limits? Or is it OK for me to say that?"

"Dammit, Jules. Stop making jokes. I just want to remind you to be nice."

"When am I ever not nice?"

"I'm not touchin' that with a ten foot pole."

OK, Juliet would be civil. If for no reason other than to prove to him she could be. What absolutely had to work was Jay and Clementine, and for this there was actually hope. They both liked books, many of the same movies, and horses. Well, Clementine had a collection of toy ponies and show horses whose manes she obsessively brushed and styled, and Jay like to pretend that the arm of every piece of furniture was a horse to be saddled, straddled, and giddyapped. Were eight-year-old girls and five-year-old boys ever friendly?

Jay and Julian were buddies (Jay practically worshipped his older cousin), but Jay and Clementine were siblings, and James wanted them to be close. He was jealous of Juliet's relationship with Rachel. Jay and Clem would never be that close, but if they could at least be friends. . .

As for younger siblings, they'd hoped for awhile, and had tried for several years. There were a handful of false alarms, and they'd get their hopes up only to be dashed, followed by a vow to "keep trying" (which was pretty damn fun, so no complaints). Years passed, and they reached a point where they realized this wasn't working. "You know, don't you, there's like a whole field of medicine devoted to people with just this problem," he told Juliet one night when he came upon her on the bathroom floor with a box of tampons in one hand and a box of Kleenex in the other. She'd been more than two weeks late, and hopes had risen once again.

"I think what's meant to be is meant to be," she said – a new attitude on life she'd acquired in the aftermath of detonating a hydrogen bomb in her face only to meet James on a last-minute, cancelled Cincinnati-to-Miami flight. He considered pushing her on the issue, but soon turned his thoughts on working longer hours and taking on more responsibility at the book store once Jay started kindergarten. For awhile, he held out a slim hope that once they stopped obsessing over it, things would work out. That was more than a year ago, though. He was 41, she turned 40 this fall . . .No. Jay and Clementine just _had_ to get along.

Lately, when he wasn't busy lecturing Juliet on how to act around Cassidy, he patiently answered Jay's seemingly endless supply of questions. About a year ago they'd told him he had a sister, but that news seemed to go right over his head. Now it was more real, and the questions just Would. Not. Stop. Most were easy to answer. _Does she like dogs? What's her favorite color? Does she take the green peppers off her pizza? How much TV is she allowed to watch? Does her mom give Eskimo kisses too? Would her mom get mad if I put her shoes in the recycling bin? Does her mom know all the words to_ Make Way for Ducklings_?_ These were all things Jay's mom did, so it was important to him that Clementine's mom did them, too.

Other questions were a lot more difficult. James attempted at times to ignore them. This was inevitably futile, as Jay would just stare, silent and expressionless until James came up with an answer. Even if James attempted to change the subject -- no dice. The silent stare would just intensify, unnerving him into blurting out an answer. He was told over and over that his son was his spitting image. It was hard to deny -- his hair color, skin tone, eye color, prominent nose -- all a perfect match. But damn if everything else about him, from his preternatural calm to his intense listening to his too-long stares, weren't his mother incarnate. It was unsettling sometimes, like living with two recording devices silently and intently listening, chewing up the data presented to them, and spitting back a measured, calculated response. Dinnertime at the Ford household could be quite a blast, when the two people you ate with listened so intently and catalogued every single word you'd ever spoken.

So, when Jay started in on "If you're Clementine's dad, how come you live with me, not her?," James eventually had to answer -- his son would stare at him, unblinking and unreadable until he was given an answer. "Well, 'cause I'm not married to her mom," James tried.

"Why not?" (translation: your answer does not satisfy)

"We had . . . kinda a big fight." (One day he'd have to come clean. One day, Jay would have to know _something _about what a deadbeat, criminal, asshole his dad had once been, but that could wait).

Jay pondered the "big fight" answer for awhile. He was digesting the info. He wouldn't comment until he'd figured things out – another quirk of his mother's.

"Like that big fight you and Mom had about the car?" Jay looked worried.

"That was really more of an argument. Besides, Mom and I made up."

Had they ever. She'd left early one morning for an important meeting with the drug company reps funding her big study. Except James used the car the day before and parked it back in the garage on "Empty." Past "Empty," actually. Stopping for gas put her behind schedule. And if that wasn't enough, the pump overflowed, splashing her skirt and shoes with gasoline. She didn't have time to return home for new clothes, nor did she have time to make last minute changes to her slides like she'd planned. So she presented to the reps in scrubs and smelling of gasoline. The day didn't improve. The reps asked more and more difficult questions. She didn't make the impression she wanted.

By the time she got home, she was livid. "I smelled like I spent the day at the auto repair shop!" she accused.

"Ah, sweet memories," he joked.

She was not amused. They hurled insults and accusations. "I can't believe you'd be so _inconsiderate_ to leave the car on Empty." "I can't believe you'd be so unprepared that one teensy tiny change to your precious schedule would throw you for a loop. Cry me a river." And on and on, voices rising until they simultaneously noticed Jay, who'd crept in from the other room. He had a wide-eyed, almost panicked look, and his lower lip was trembling. He'd never actually seen his parents _fight_. Minor differences of opinion, sure, along with snarky asides, rolled eyes, or muttered "Fine. Have it your way"s. You didn't live with someone for five years (or eight depending on how you counted) without getting irritated from time to time. But flat-out screaming matches? Non-veiled insults? This was all new to Jay.

Juliet regained her composure first (_There's_ a surprise, James thought bitterly). "Hey buddy . . . hey."

"Why are you yelling?" he asked.

"We got a little mad. We shouldn't yell. It's OK. Hey, want to read _Make Way for Ducklings _with me?"

He nodded yes and turned to leave. Juliet left, too, but not before turning back to glare at James. "This isn't over," her expression said.

After Jay was in bed, though, she didn't bring it up again. She just subjected James to the silent treatment. He was trying to tell her about Hurley's upcoming visit, the final stages of shop repairs, and the books Mac had tracked down that week. "That's nice," stood as her longest reply. Screw it, he thought. You know what? He'd apologized – more than once. What more was he supposed to do? Fine. He could just be silent right back. She finished whatever she was working on – probably revising whatever had gone wrong with her report that morning – but hell if he was going to ask her anything about it. Then she started slamming things around. He wasn't gonna speak. He'd make her break the silence.

She was in the kitchen, and she glared at him, daring him to speak. Nuh uh. You first, he narrowed his eyes, glared back. No one broke the silence, but somehow, they were kissing. This didn't require words. Good – he wasn't ready to say anything to her yet. He was still pissed. She was still angry too. If it wasn't obvious in her eyes (and it was), the tight, clawing grip she had on his back was a dead giveaway. He was gripping her waist a little (OK, a lot) tighter than strictly necessary. She removed her hands from his back and began tearing open his shirt.

He was still guiding her with an unbreakable hold on her waist. They'd made it as far as the steps, and it was as far as they were going to get. They'd lived in the house for three years, but this was the first time they'd had sex on the stairs. Maybe they should get in fights more often.

After, they lay/sat there for a little bit. His legs felt wobbly. The incline of the steps had been something of a challenge. When he caught his breath, he gave in, broke the silent spell.

"You still smell like gasoline."

"I thought you liked it."

"You think? Take a look around. We're half dressed, lyin' on the steps. At the very least, you could say I don't mind it."

She tried to rest her head on his shoulder, but that only pushed his shoulder blades against the riser. She laughed at their ridiculous state.

"I'm sorry about the car," he admitted (for about the seventh time, but who's counting?)

"Today was awful," she responded. "The car was just the start of it. The whole terrible day wasn't your fault."

"The last ten minutes weren't that bad," he said, mock offended. "Wanna go upstairs where it's a little more comfortable?"

Damn that had been a fun night . . .

"What if you get in a fight where you don't make up?" Jay and his infernal questions interrupted James' pleasant memories. Wow, that fight really made an impression on the little guy.

"That's not gonna happen, Jay."

"How do you know?"

Honestly? _Because making up with your mom is so __**amazing**__._ No, probably not a good answer. How about _because the only time Mom and I had an argument we might not have been able to make up after, she fell down a very, very deep hole, and it was the worst, most horrible, awful, soul-killing thing that's every happened to me (and trust me, kid, I've had a lot of awful, soul-killing things happen to me)_? Probably a worse answer than the first one.

"Remember last summer and you couldn't go on the monkey bars at the playground?"

"Yeah. I was too little."

"Well, you grew up a lot and this summer, and you're grown up enough to go on the monkey bars. When I got into that big fight with Clementine's mom, I wasn't very grown up. But, when I met Mom, I was. So, even if Mom and I get into a fight sometimes, we're grown up enough to make up and apologize."

Jay thought on that for awhile. "Now that you're all grown up, what if you make up with Clementine's mom? Then will you live at their house?"

James crouched down so he was eye level to his son. "Listen up, Champ. I'm not movin' out. No matter what. We're kinda stuck together, OK? I know it's confusing, but I love you, and I love Mom, and if I moved somewhere else, I'd really miss you guys."

"I'd miss you, too, Dad," Jay said and hugged him.

James hugged back. Nice. He stood up. Man, sometimes he could figure it out, say the right things. "World's Greatest Dad," he thought.

"Hey, Dad. Can we go get ice cream? I think I'd feel better if we go to get ice cream together."

Little conniver. Had the whole "I'm worried Dad's gonna move out" just been a set-up to get ice cream? Wouldn't put it past him. Now would be the time for another good Dad Lesson. _Good try, kid, but see, the thing is, the way a con works, you gotta make it seem like it's __**my**__ idea to get the ice cream._ And if he dared to say that, it would surely be reported back to Juliet. He wondered how great make-up sex after a "you're corrupting our son" argument would be.

###

Thankfully, the last three days, Jay had been preoccupied with Uncle Hurley's visit, playing Hungry, Hungry Hippo, reading Hurley's comics, showing off his plastic dinosaur collection. Now, though, Hurley was gone and the Big Visit was less than a week away. "It'll be cool, don't worry," Hurley had said. God, he hoped Hugo was right. Driving home from the airport, James tightly gripped the steering wheel and felt his palms go clammy. He needed to remind Juliet not to make any snide remarks about Kate. Maybe he should remind her one more time not to rise to Cassidy's bait.

At dinner, he did try a little bit. "Listen, next weekend, promise me that . . ."

She held up her hands. "James, I got it. Cross my heart, I'm going to be on my best behavior. Stop worrying. Everything will be fine."

Jay started to giggle. "Dad, I think you should stop bossing Mom around."

"That's good advice," Juliet agreed.

The rest of dinner passed peacefully. James updated them on the latest with Hurley (and although he itched to tell about the empty storefront-coffeeshop plan, he held off). Juliet didn't work on Friday afternoons, and today she and Jay whiled away the afternoon playing Marco Polo at the neighborhood pool.

"Do you think Clementine likes to play Marco Polo?" Jay now asked.

"We'll have to find out," James answered, getting nervous all over again. Shouldn't he already know if his daughter liked Marco Polo? This didn't escape Juliet's attention. Getting up to take her plate to the kitchen, she leaned over him to whisper in his ear, "After Jay gets to bed tonight, I've got a surprise for you."

He ran Jay through his bedtime routine as quick as possible. Bath, two Curious George stories, brush teeth, cup of water, goodnight kid, your mom's got a surprise waiting.

All the extra work she'd been doing on her research report lately had worn her down. Ever since what she called the "terrible, no-good, gasoline-smelling day" and what he called "the day of sex on the stairs," she barricaded herself in her home office most nights as soon as Jay was asleep. Last week James went to bed alone, and when the clock hit midnight and he was still alone, he got up to check on her, surrounded by folders, data, and printouts -- sound asleep. The drug reps were coming back in a month, and all the kinks had to be worked out by then. Tonight, though, she'd promised a "surprise," and anything that meant she wasn't spending the night in the extra-bedroom-turned-office was a good thing.

Tonight's surprise? He laughed when he came downstairs and caught of glimpse of what was sitting on the coffee table in the den -- a six-pack of beer and the game of Battleship.

She said, "I figured we could use a reminder of a time when we didn't have stressful family visits, research reports, book store construction, a kid getting ready to go to kindergarten . . ."

"When you list it all out like that, it sounds even worse," he complained.

"My no-stress night's already a bust."

"Nah. Let's play."

It was great. They played three rounds (and he won two - ha HA!) before Cassidy and Clementine's upcoming visit even crossed his mind. By then, though, he was already cracking open his fourth beer.

"Hey!" Juliet said. "You've already had your three!"

He picked up her second can, still more than half full. "You snooze, you lose, lady." He guzzled the rest of her drink.

"Hey!" she said again. "The point isn't to get drunk." She headed for the kitchen and came back with a glass of red wine.

"You know what they say: 'beer before liquor, never sicker'," he remarked.

"You're just full of aphorisms tonight. Besides, wine's not liquor."

"Au contraire, mon frère, but suit yourself," he said.

"I'm _not _your brother, and I _will_ suit myself," she took a sip of her wine.

Battleship didn't last a whole lot longer. Things got just a little smeary. Putting the little red pegs in the plastic ships seemed slightly difficult, but _very_ funny. Everything after that was a little unclear. There was a lot of laughing. He was pretty sure an aircraft carrier was thrown at him. He was definitely sure nudity was involved.

All he knew for sure now was that he was waking up with a pounding headache. Why was the light so damn bright? And what was that sound? Was that what woke him up? Here it was again -- eewwwwww. It sounded like retching and vomiting. He leapt from bed. Oh no. Jay couldn't be sick. They couldn't be passing around some nasty stomach bug the week before the Big Visit.

There it was again, and he was relieved to hear that the nasty sounds were coming not from Jay's room, but from the master bathroom. HA! His head might feel like it was hosting an Ultimate Fighting Championship cage match, but at least he wasn't sick to his stomach.

He leaned on the doorframe to the bathroom and mocked, "What did I tell ya? Beer before liquor. . ."

"Shut up."

"And you though wine wouldn't count. I love it when I'm right . . ."

"Go away, James," she said and rested her head on the cool bathroom tiles. "Fix Jay his Saturday pancakes."

He stepped in and took Tylenol from the medicine cabinet. "He likes your pancakes better," he said, popping a fistful of pills in his mouth.

"Leave," she murmured.

"All righty. I'll just tell him, 'Sorry, son, Mom's too hung over to make your pancakes this morning.'"

**OK, yes, that is a really, really weird place to leave off. I was (am) planning on picking up right here with Juliet's point of view but it will be just as long as this probably, and it's long enough already. . . although, what's left to tell? Their visit with Cass & Clem, of course, plus other exciting adventures like "Jay brings home pipe-cleaner art"! And . . . "James uncovers a book-selling eBay scam!" All right, seriously, there is a little more to tell in addition to C&C's visit, so stay tuned. . . And I promise to be more linear next time. I'd like to get it up by the beginning of next week, but my crazy month has thrown me a twist that's made it crazier. As my son says, "Phew grief!" **

**PS I think I need a new "summary," as what I have on there now, frankly, sucks. Anyone a good summary writer?**


	27. Unexpected

**Wow, I'm long winded. And to think that I'd thought I could put this chapter, the previous one, and the one to follow all in one chapter. Silly me.**

_Saturday Morning_

BLEAAARGH. Ugh. She really, really thought red wine was exempt from that stupid "beer before liquor" credo. Apparently not. And it didn't help that James found it soooo funny. Besides, it was his fault she felt this way, wasn't it? If he hadn't guzzled up all the beer . . . She noted with some satisfaction the way he squinted against the morning light, rubbed his fingertips to his temples, and headed straight for the Tylenol bottle. A headache? Serves him right.

Despite feeling like death warmed over, she had no regrets about last night. They needed it. Heck, _she_ needed it. This stupid research report. Two months ago she'd been ready to "Wow" the sponsors. The results were coming in, all very positive. Somehow, though, there had been a miscommunication. "Those results are all very well and good," the main guy said, "But what we're actually looking for . . ." Something completely different. All the patients had to be recalled. New data was needed. The hospital needed this grant money. She had one more month. That's when she was to report to them again, and the results _had_ to be right.

As if that wasn't enough, James was something of a frantic wreck. He was incredibly excited about working at the book store, and she loved seeing his eyes light up talking about his ideas, the repairs, new books. On the other hand, if she had to listen to another one of his "How to Act Around Cassidy" harangues, she was going to lose it. She knew how very nervous he was about the visit, so she tried to remain patient. But honestly? She was tired of being on the receiving end of James Ford's Lessons in Etiquette.

A week from now, their visit would almost be over. A month from now, she'd give her report to the drug reps. Six weeks from now, her baby started kindergarten . . . It was all too much. Thank God it would all be over in six weeks.

They needed a bit of levity every now and then. She retched into the toilet again. Next time she'd be sure not to mix wine with beer.

_Sunday Afternoon_

She dozed in the lounge chair. She could hear Jay and James whooping and hollering and splashing. For Jay's half-birthday (which they celebrated as seriously as his real birthday, seeing how close _that _was to Christmas), James gave him a Nerf gun. She could hear James now, shooting the Nerf balls at Jay, who'd try to catch them as he jumped into the pool.

She hadn't been too keen on getting Jay any kind of weapon as a toy. "Come on, it's a Nerf gun, for Chrissake," James argued. "He's a little boy. Any stick he picks up he turns into a gun anyway."

"I just don't like the idea of saying guns are OK," she protested.

"Yeah, that's right. I forgot how anti-gun you've always been," he rolled his eyes at her. And he won that argument.

Right at this moment, she was glad of it. They'd played Marco Polo (as usual) until she was worn out. Now the guys could play their ball/gun game, and she could relax. She'd brought a stack of papers to read poolside, but was really too beat. That Marco Polo really took it out of her these days. Less than four months till she hit 40, and lately, she felt every single day of it. Her papers could wait, she'd just doze off . . . only for a little bit. She was so tired . . .

_Monday Morning_

They were leaving for Orlando on Thursday afternoon. A three-and-a-half-day workweek. She stood at the admit desk, dreading opening her schedule. These three and a half days were bound to be chockfull. She was pleasantly surprised to see it wasn't that bad. Good. The last thing she needed this week of all weeks was a crazy schedule.

She began flipping through her first patient's chart. She couldn't concentrate, though. Some sickly sweet, overpowering aroma assaulted her senses.

"What's that smell?"

Harris Allen, one of the new residents, stepped up beside her. "Peeling an orange," he said, holding out the dripping fruit.

"Ugh. Do that someplace else. It stinks," she wrinkled her nose. God, the smell was unbearable.

"It's an orange!" Harris protested. "It reminds me of a sunny Florida day."

"Harris. It's July. It's Miami. If you need to be reminded of a sunny Florida day – go outside! And take that thing with you."

He kept peeling.

"I'm not kidding, Harris – take it away!"

Chagrined, Harris walked off. That too-sweet orange aroma lingered. She felt vaguely sick, but took a deep breath, and returned to reviewing her patient's chart.

Fifteen minutes later, she was back at the admit desk. Here was Harris. He'd been at the hospital less than a month, and had a lot to learn. She sat down with him to review the whys and wherefores of the blood work she'd ordered on Mrs. Taylor. He was a quick learner and an eager student. She liked the guy.

"Oh my God," she started. "Why do you still smell like orange? Did you throw the peel away here?"

"No – I finished it in the break room like you asked." Harris was starting to look a little frightened. His graduate program director was freaking him right out with her crazy anti-orange stance.

She didn't care how zany she appeared. The smell revolted her. She amped up the crazy. "I think it's on your fingers. Tell me you washed your hands."

Now the poor guy was desperate. He badly needed to make a good impression on this peculiar, anti-orange woman who could make or break his medical career. So, he held his hands to her face. Yes, of course, he washed his hands after eating and before seeing patients.

He waved his hands under her nose. She could smell the soap, but the orange scent still lingered. Right here. Right under her nose. She turned on her heels and fled for the nearest bathroom. She banged in to the first stall and emptied the contents of her stomach.

Citrus in general and oranges in particular were the bane of her existence when she was pregnant with Jay. . . . No. No, no, no, no, no. She was not starting this again. She'd long since made her peace with this, and she had no intention of stepping back on to that particular rollercoaster. She was not going to start misinterpreting every queasy stomach and every bone-tired mid-afternoon only to be hit with the weight of crushing disappointment a week, two weeks down the line. No sir. She stood at the sink and rinsed her mouth. You're nearly forty, for crying out loud, she scolded herself. Life is complicated enough as it is. She stood at the mirror, wiped the sweat from her brow, adjusted her lab coat. Nope. Back to work. Back to real life, forget fantasyland. Harris just had a particularly bad-smelling orange. Back to work.

_Tuesday_

Harris approached from down the hall, carrying a large stack of medical records. "These were the records you asked me to pull," he said. "Everyone who was first seen between February 8 and March 15 last year. There are sixteen of them." He dumped the records into her outstretched arms.

"OW! Jesus, Harris!"

"Uh. . . sorry!" Poor Harris, he just couldn't do anything right around her. Even now, he was somewhat confused. What had he just done? He wanted to make it right. It had been such an honor to be granted this residency, and the last thing he wanted was her thinking he was an idiot. "Look, if you want, I can compile the stats. What is it you need? Blood workups? Ages?. . ."

Harris babbled on. The sixteen medical records piled in her arms still made her chest ache. Not as bad as when Harris first handed them over. She thought then that the pain in her breasts was going to knock her over. That's it. Enough. She turned on her heels.

"Doc? Seriously . . . if you need me to do something . . ." Harris stood lamely in the hallway, watching his program director retreat in the opposite direction. What had he done wrong? _She seemed so normal when I came in for my interview_, he thought. Now it seemed like every time he spoke to her, she did a 180 and stalked away from him.

She heard Harris call after her. _Poor fellow, he must really think I'm a loony tune_, she thought. But that didn't matter right now. She'd take a pregnancy test and when the results came back negative, she could stop obsessing over every minor, teeny, tiny possibility of a symptom. She could get back to her crazy, complicated-enough-as-it-is life. She'd made her peace with this. Really, she had. In fact, wouldn't a negative test be better? She'd made her peace with this.

She sat at her desk, staring at the positive sign. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Turns out, "I've made my peace with this," wasn't _entirely_ false. _Mostly_ false, maybe (they'd wanted this for years, after all), but not _entirely_ false. Holy hell – she was nearly 40! She'd drunk herself sick four days ago (although maybe it wasn't the "beer before liquor," after all). She rested her forehead on her hand. James was so excited about going to work at the book store. They hadn't talked about this possibility in more than a year . . . for all she knew, he really and truly _had_ made his peace with it. Nearly 40. Nearly 40 . . . she'd be in her sixties before this kid was out of college. Holy hell . . .

The phone rang, and she picked it up as if on autopilot. It was James. He didn't even bother with conversation-opening niceties. "Hey," he started. "One more thing I gotta tell ya. Cass is a _huge_ Cowboys fan, and she'll probably talk shit about the Dolphins if you give her even half a chance, so no Dolphins shirts or caps this weekend. OK?"

"OK," she agreed.

"OK? That's it? You ain't got a snappy comeback or wise-ass comment?"

"No."

"You OK? Somethin' wrong?"

_No, nothing's wrong -- I don't think – although I'm not sure – how did this catch me so off-guard? --_ _and nothing I want to tell you about over the phone. _Which came out as "No, nothing's wrong – just distracted. Busy."

She sat through an early afternoon seminar, grateful today was the day for the NICU attending to give his introductory lecture. She'd heard this one at least five times already. She zoned out. When had she last had a period? Who knew? She stopped keeping track of that two years ago. It was too worrying. Counting down the days, getting all hopeful and giddy when "D-Day" passed, discovering when you're terribly irregular that ticking off days in your calendar was a sure way to get your head all twisted and your nerves all jangled.

She left the seminar early (being program director had its perks) and sought out Janie, the ultrasound tech. "You have some free time this afternoon? I need an ultrasound to date a pregnancy."

"Yeah," Janie answered, looking at the appointment schedule on her handheld. "I should be able to slide you in. Who's the patient?" She had her stylus at the ready to retrieve the patient's record.

"Uh. Not a patient – it's for me."

Janie let out some kind of little yelp. She hugged Juliet tightly – too tightly.

"Ow, Janie."

"Sorry. Hey, I was gonna go for a smoke break, but this is a lot more exciting. You free now?"

She lay back on Janie's exam table. Moment of truth. Janie chattered away. "So, we'll just take some measurements on the little guy, see how long he's been in there. . ."

"I know how it works, Janie."

Janie ran the wand over her belly. "Oh! Well, hold on now. I gotta adjust the computer now . . ."

Juliet twisted to get a look. "Hold still!" Janie commanded. "All right. Now this will come out right . . . they're just smaller, and the computer's default is for one. . ."

"What are you talking about, Janie?"

"You didn't already know?? You're having twins."

Juliet turned just her head, avoiding Janie's "sit still" wrath. There they were, two little ghostly figures. . . "Sonofabitch," she muttered. So much for life getting less complicated six weeks from now.

Janie busied herself with calculations, inputting data into her computer. "May 26," she eventually said. "That sound about right?"

"I have no idea," Juliet answered honestly.

Janie printed a picture, which Juliet slid into her lab coat pocket. She retreated to her office, and opened her Outlook calendar. May 26, May 26. Ugh. May 26. Of course. How could she forget? That had been the "Horrible, No-Good, Gasoline-Smelling Day."

There was a sharp knock at her door. Nellie, the charge nurse peeked her head in. "I just got off the phone with Dr. Foster," she said. "His son broke his leg at the skate park."

That sounded horrible, and it roused Juliet – slightly – from her dazed state. She looked at Nellie with what she hoped was an appropriately horrified expression. Dr. Foster – Mike – was a good guy, and he always worried over his daredevil son.

"Sounds like he's gonna be fine," Nellie continued. Juliet tried a face she hoped came off as "Phew! Thank goodness for small miracles," when all she could really think was "Twins. 40. Twins. 40. Twins. 40."

"So, he needs you to take his patients this afternoon until he gets back from the ER."

"Nellie, can you please get someone else? It's not a good time for me." (I'd prefer to just sit here in my office and feel excited and overjoyed and scared and hopeful and sorry for myself and stressed out and too old.)

"He said to ask you. Said you owed him one."

Fine. Fine. She did owe him one. Mike was covering her call this weekend so she could gp gallivanting off to Disneyland with her family – and the family of the woman her husband went to jail for conning. What fun!

She didn't owe him _this_, she thought bitterly, pulling in to her driveway at close to 11 that night. His last patient of the day presented with high blood pressure, major complications, and had to be admitted. It was nearly 9:30 before Mike finally showed up. She had to review everything with him, and out of simple human kindness stuck around to ask him about his son, what happened, was he going to be OK? He was, luckily, and Juliet made a mental note to do everything in her power to dissuade Jay from the skate park. And, hell, these other two as well, she thought, dropping a hand to her stomach . . . She'd been so busy with Mike's patient, she'd managed to put that out of her mind for a bit.

Her house was quiet, and aside from the light over the stove, the downstairs was completely dark. She crept up the stairs, peered into Jay's room. Sound asleep. She wanted to sneak over to his bedside and give him a kiss, but the Lego minefield on the floor deterred her.

She could see from the hallway that a light was still on in her bedroom, but when she entered, she saw James sound asleep, with his book in his lap, glasses on the end of his nose. She quietly undressed, brushed teeth, washed her face, and slid into bed. She took his glasses off his face and reached over him to turn out the light. He woke up – barely. "What time is it?" he murmured.

"Just after 11," she answered.

"Guess your day didn't get much better – you sounded distracted when I called this afternoon. Everything all right?" He had turned on his side, and was mumbling all this into his pillow.

"Yeah. Everything's just fine. Go back to sleep," she answered. It could wait. He didn't need to know right this minute. She put her head down on the pillow. He snuggled against her. He'd been under the covers awhile and was quite warm. She settled into him and fell asleep.

_Wednesday Night_

This time tomorrow they'd be eating dinner with Cassidy and Clementine. Luckily, tonight, Jay was taking all the pressure off. He was so excited about his trip to Disney World that he just chattered on giddily. He was normally a pretty serious kid who kept his thoughts and opinions to himself. Every so often, though, he'd get so excited about something he'd just babble excitedly. She found it endearing. James did, too, and every time Jay would begin to wind down, James would wind him right back up again. "Hey, Jay, we gotta get you some Mouse Ears. You know they'll sew your name into the back of 'em." And Jay was off again – this time about all the souvenirs he wanted to get, a snow globe for Aunt Rachel and a t-shirt for Granddad and maybe a rocket ship or something for Julian . . .

He chattered through his whole bath. She couldn't stop giggling at him. Mindless babble just really wasn't his style, but, boy was he excited. She read him two extra stories just so he'd have more time to wind down. He asked more questions about the Teacup ride and the Pirates of the Caribbean and why did Clementine want to meet Cinderella? At least one member of this family isn't dreading the weekend, she thought, turning out his lights.

She closed the door behind her, and checked the back pocket of her jeans for the ultrasound photo. She was going to lead with that. She'd gone back and forth on just putting off telling him until after the weekend, but she was tired of keeping the news bottled up. She was excited, but stressed and wanted to share both.

Downstairs, James was sitting at the dining room table, looking at some large piece of paper spread out before him.

"Hey," he called. "Come over here. I got something to show you."

She approached. Blueprints? What was he looking at?

"OK, I been back and forth on telling you this or waiting till after the weekend," he started (_yeah, me too_, she thought). "I'm kinda nervous about it, but really excited too, and I just, well . . . don't wanna keep it a secret anymore." (_uh huh, preaching to the choir here, James_).

He cleared his throat, placed his hands on the blueprints (or whatever they were) and just started talking. "Hurley wants to buy that empty storefront right next to the store. We can turn it into a coffee shop. I even talked to Bob about it, he can help get started, hook me up with the right equipment and stuff. So, right now it's really not more than an idea, but I think it can happen. Construction will take up most of the fall, and I know we said how great it will be this fall when everything calms down again, and this is just one more thing to complicate things, but I think it'll be so cool. So, it's gettin' built-up all fall, and into the winter. These are the architect's drawings, and he says we can get it all done by like the middle of February . . ." he trailed off. "You're starin' at me funny. You don't like the idea. I can tell."

"No, no that's not it at all . . . this sounds really great." (_it's just . . . well, I've got some other plans for the middle of February_ – although she left that part out.)

"Really? 'Cause you don't look too excited."

Well, hell, she couldn't tell him now. Could she? Should she start with "James, it won't work because in the middle of February, we'll be knee-deep in diapers and baby clothes. Oh yeah, did I mention there will be TWO of them? So, let's just put your little coffee shop dream on hold." No. If she told him now, he'd fold up those drawings, say it was just a stupid idea (when it clearly wasn't), tell her how happy he was (which would be true, but maybe not the _whole_ truth), say he wasn't really looking forward to working at the book store anyway (which would be a _total_ lie), and jump feet-first into five more years of life at home.

The hospital owed her a year sabbatical. Maybe she should check into that. Maybe she should get her ducks in a row before just blasting him with this news. She sat next to him at the table. "This looks really great," she said, reaching over to squeeze his hand. "You're going to be great at this."

_Thursday_

James slid very easily into a life of suburban domesticity. This didn't come as a surprise to Juliet. Hurley and Miles made fun of him for it. _That_ surprised her. Did they not know him at all? Although, she supposed that once upon a time, she, too, had been surprised to show up at the survivors' beach camp and find that the neatest, most homey, comfortable set-up belonged to James Ford. Later he told her he split into Locke's group in the Others' barracks because the "accomodations were better." And when they landed in Dharmaville, he took like a duck to water to the neat cottages and home life. His needs were pretty simple, really -- a quiet place to read, a comfy place to sleep, a good meal, a roof over his head.

That said, there were times when life as a suburban husband and dad chafed. For instance, the "bullshit holidays." Once you figured out what he considered a "bullshit" holiday and what he considered "legit," it was easy to accommodate, and luckily, she'd figured this out way back in the '70s. For instance, St. Patrick's Day – bullshit ("Hell, we ain't Irish."); Halloween – legit (stand by for a frenzy of pumpkin carving and hanging of fake cobwebs). She knew she'd never get flowers or candy on Valentine's Day, and she'd never get breakfast in bed on Mother's Day. On the other hand, she could expect to be treated like a queen for the entirety of her birthday week and avidly looked forward to the delight in his eyes at the romantic surprises he could come up with for Christmas. She was OK with this. Stand by for an outburst, though, when someone deigned to ask what he was getting his wife for Valentine's. He could usually grumble through some lie, then come home to tell her what he _really_ wanted to say: "I ain't fucking gettin' her anything. It's just a damn stupid made-up holiday to make you act all romantic for no Goddamn reason."

Family travel – now that _really_ chafed, and unfortunately, sometimes it couldn't be avoided. He never quite adjusted to the fact that he couldn't just shove a bunch of t-shirts and jeans into a duffle and be off. Preparing for a trip with him was something akin to torture, and this trip was probably the worst yet, given what was waiting at the other end of it.

So she wasn't at all surprised to return home from work at noon to find him standing in the driveway, fuming at Jay. She parked on the curb so as not to get in the way.

"Seven . . . eight . . . nine… ten," she heard James practically yell as she approached. He was pointing to a stack of books in Jay's arms. "Dammit, Jay, I told you five books. FIVE. I know you know how to count, so pick five and take them back up to your room." Jay just stared at him, hurt and silent. "Goddammit, GO!" And Jay took off running.

"Don't curse at him," she chided. James wheeled on her, and she realized he didn't know she had approached.

He ignored her remark. "Glad you're here," he started. "What the hell is this?" He lifted a small tote bag from the front seat of the car.

"A bag of snacks for the car ride," she answered.

"I realize that, but this???" he pointed at the Dolphins logo on the bag. "Didn't I say – very clearly – no Dolphins stuff? You know, I tell you one thing – one thing – not to do, and you do it!"

What the hell was he talking about? He'd been giving her explicit instructions every night for the past month on how to act, what to do, what not to do, what did he mean he only told her "one thing"? She should have let it pass. She should have chalked this up to the "James hates family travel" tote board. Instead she snatched the bag from his hand, and dumped the whole thing out on the front passenger seat. Boxes of raisins, apples, packs of peanut butter crackers were everywhere. She shoved the bag back at his chest.

"There, all better?" she asked.

"Oh, screw you," he whined.

"You wish," and she turned on her heel to head into the house. He grabbed her hand and turned her back around – roughly. She was surprised, then, to see he was actually smiling.

"Sorry," he said. "You know, this reminds me of that last big blow up we had . . .and how we ended up. You ever think about that night?"

"A lot more recently, actually," she answered cryptically.

"Waddaya mean?" he asked, but here came Jay.

"Dad, can I please bring six books? I can't decide on one more to leave behind."

Six hours later and they were at dinner with Cassidy and Clementine. It was like a horrid cross between the worst blind date ever and an uncomfortable family reunion. Clementine and Jay actually hit it right off. Clementine had a new Nintendo DSi, and Jay was fascinated. She was really good about sharing with him, and they switched off playing games. She knew James was thrilled at that. The downside was that the kids were so involved with each other, they provided no distraction for the three adults sitting awkwardly and attempting polite conversation.

James acted as some kind of odd matchmaker, desperately looking for conversational topics. He tripped from topic to topic to topic, frantically trying to hit on something the two women had in common – other than the fact that the same man had fathered both (or, well, all, to be accurate) of their children.

When he let loose with, "Cassidy's dad was a mechanic," Cassidy asked the inevitable question, "Your dad is a mechanic, too?" and Juliet had to answer, "No, he was a civil engineer – he's retired." And then Cassidy turned to James with a "what the hell?" look, and Juliet couldn't very well say, "It's me who used to be a mechanic," so she just sat, staring miserably at her pasta, jealously bitter over the red wine Cassidy was drinking.

So James moved on to some other ridiculous topic, and Cassidy got straight to the point. "Look, I'm here for her," gesturing at Clementine. "I don't really care to make friends," and they sat in silence the rest of the meal. Awkward and horrible.

"That went pretty well, I think," James announced, getting ready for bed that night. Juliet looked at him like he was crazy. "I'm grading on a curve," he admitted. "There were no public incidents. That's something."

_Friday noon_

This was the worst day of her life. OK, that's hyperbole. The day she'd fallen down that awful hole and blown herself to smithereens – THAT was the worst day of her life. The day the freighter exploded had been pretty bad, or the sub, or the day Ben took her out to see Goodwin's rotting corpse, or told her Rachel was dying . . . All right, she admitted ruefully, today wasn't so bad after all. But in this lifetime? Today was right near the top of "worst days."

The heat was unbearable, and the smell of fried dough, which they seemed to pass every fifty yards was worse than Harris' orange had been. She'd hustled off to the bathroom to puke three times already. She was pleased to note that Disney kept the bathrooms very clean.

She managed OK on Pirates of the Caribbean and It's a Small World, but drew the line at the Mad Tea Party teacup ride. No way was she sitting on a spinning teacup. So the other four went, and she waited on them at the exit. She watched them, exhilarated and happy, leave the ride, and a kindly, grandmotherly woman said to Cassidy, "You have a lovely family." That made her a little angry, but Cassidy spitting back "We are _not_ a family" made her a lot angry. _Yeah, Cassidy, you kind of are_, she thought, and she wanted to smack her for making it seem like it would be a horrible thing to have James and Jay for your family.

And now, here she sat. James had taken the kids to a souvenir shop, leaving the two women to finish their lunch. Retreating with the kids, he'd given Juliet an unmistakable warning glance, and she knew to be on her best behavior. She sipped her Sprite, and sat in silence. Hopefully he'd be back soon.

"So, how far along are you?" asked Cassidy.

"I'm sorry?"

"You're pregnant, right? I mean, you didn't drink, don't go on rides, dash off to the bathroom. Guess the other option is you are a no-fun, alcoholic bulimic."

"Almost nine weeks," she answered, no point in denying it. "Please don't say anything. James doesn't know."

"And here I was under the impression you two told each other _everything_," Cassidy remarked snidely.

Now Juliet's anger really flared. How dare she mock their relationship. She had every right to be bitter towards James, that much was true, but to mock their relationship? Well, that was mocking her, and she had no right to be bitter towards Juliet. How dare she? Weeks and weeks of James' hectoring, lecturing, pleading ran through her brain. _Just brush it off, she'll try and make you mad._ So, she bit down on her anger and simply answered, "Things have been really busy for us lately."

"Mmm hmm," Cassidy replied, clearly thinking the answer was lame. "I'm surprised he hasn't caught on. I mean, I haven't even known you 24 hours, but I guess he's the same self-centered bastard he's always been."

Juliet leapt over the picnic table, knocking over her Sprite in the process. She grabbed the front of Cassidy's shirt and slammed her to the ground, knocking her head against the pavement. She summoned up her best blue steel death glare and held her eyes inches from the other woman's. "Listen here. I could kill you right now if I wanted to. You make another remark like that about my husband, my family – test me. I'll kill you."

Except not. What she really did was just sit across the picnic table, lamely using a straw to stir the remaining ice in her cup. _God, Cassidy must think I'm such a ninny. She makes snide remark after snide remark and I just take it. Why? All because my husband made me promise not to make a scene. I really am a ninny._ What was she supposed to say? She really just couldn't let that remark pass. Finally she spoke.

"I haven't told him, because I'm not sure James is the father. I was worried about the same thing with Jay, and _thank God_ he looks just like him. This time – I don't know. I mean, it could be anyone. Hurley's been visiting _a lot_, and then I have this new resident. He's kind of scared of me, but that's hot in its own way. And the UPS guy – he's black, so I guess that would be kind of obvious if it's him. I just hope it's not the night shift orderly. That guy's just not quite right, and if it's something genetic, well . . ." she trailed off, patted her stomach, looked concerned.

Cassidy stared, one, two, three beats. She blinked, shook her head, and then laughed. Uproarious, hand-clapping laughter. Juliet couldn't help but giggle, too. Finally Cassidy spoke. "I don't know what's funnier – what you just said, or the fact that I wish to God it was all true. It would absolutely crush him if you slept with every male in a 10-block radius. Please tell me there's at least a teeny tiny grain of truth to it?"

"Sure. Hurley has been visiting a lot. My new resident is scared of me. The UPS guy is black, and the night orderly is a bit off."

"But you haven't slept with any of them?"

Juliet shook her head. Cassidy laughed again. "You're funny," she said. "I gotta be honest with you. That bastard took me for everything I own, and it pisses me off that his 'punishment' is being married to a gorgeous, hot-shot doctor. And now you gotta make me go and like you?"

"Well, you don't have to go that far."

"So what is it around here that's been making you sick?" Cassidy asked.

"Fried dough – funnel cake."

James and the kids approached then. The rest of the afternoon went much better. Cassidy paid attention, and steered the group away from all funnel cake stands. The kids went on the teacup ride six more times.

When Cassidy left for her bachelorette party that evening, she hugged and kissed Clementine. "Mommy will be back Sunday morning, 'K?" Clementine and Jay were watching _Ratatouille_ in their room, and Clem was anxious to get back to the movie.

"Hey, thanks Cass," James said. "I appreciate you trusting me like this."

Cassidy had no answer for that, except to say "You're welcome."

"Nice to meet you," Juliet offered a hand. Cassidy shook back. "Likewise," she said, and smiled at her. OK, no longer enemies, never going to be friends, that's not bad for a day's work, thought Juliet.

After she left, James headed to the adjoining room to watch the movie with the kids. When he came back in at close to 9, Juliet was already asleep on the bed. He jostled her awake. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty, the kids are asleep, wanna wake up yourself?"

"Not really," she murmured.

"Seriously? You're already out for the count? It's not even 9."

"Mmmmm hmm."

He chuckled. "They are kinda a handful. But seriously? My kids wipe you out this much?"

At that, it was her turn to chuckle. "If you only knew."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"How very true that statement is."

He harrumphed. "You know I don't bother tryin' to figure out your riddles."

"Good night," and she went straight back to sleep.

_Sunday Night_

Jay, more wiped out than even his parents, was sound asleep. They'd spent Saturday at the Animal Kingdom, and most of Sunday at the hotel pool waiting for Cassidy's return. Jay actually cried when Clementine had to leave. But Cassidy was considering letting her come for a stay over Christmas, and he looked forward to that. The whole ride home, he was in one of his giddy, chattering moods, going on and on about all the things he had done.

Now, with the long-dreaded visit out of the way, Jay asleep, and James overjoyed at the success of the weekend, Juliet relaxed into the couch.

"I hate that he was so upset when Clem left, but man, I'm glad they got along so great," James said.

"Me too."

"It's just important to me. Plus, for him, too. I mean, she's the only sibling he'll ever have, you know?"

"Yeah, well, about that," she started, but fumbled. She hadn't totally planned this reveal.

"About what?"

"Being his only sibling," she started again, cleared her throat to speak, couldn't quite get started.

"Hey, it's OK. I mean, sure, I wish things could have gone different for us there, but, you know, it ain't the end of the world. Well, truth be told, I still think about it sometimes, but more just like 'what if', nothin' serious-like. I'm just a dope I guess," all just tumbled out of his mouth. He was clearly trying to reassure her, but it dawned on her that what he was actually dancing around saying was that he wanted this. She grinned.

"Shut up, please. What I am trying to say is – I'm pregnant."

He sat with his mouth open. "No shit," he finally said. (Well, that wasn't the most romantic, articulate thing ever, but she'd let it slide). He went on with "You're shitting me." (not really getting any more romantic or articulate).

She pulled the picture she'd been keeping in the back pocket of her jeans and handed it to him. "Twins," she said with some trepidation.

He whistled and grinned. "No fucking way" (Wow. It was actually getting less romantic and articulate). He stared at the picture in his hand. Whistled again. "Holy shit." He shook his head, slid over to her on the couch and gave her a hug. She noticed he actually had tears in his eyes, and that got her waterworks going. "Well, this is the best Goddamn news I think I've had in forever," he said.

She soaked in the relief and revelry of the moment for a little bit. He was so happy. But there was real life to think about. So, she started in on what she had planned. A year's sabbatical for her, he could totally keep his plans for the book store and coffee shop, after she went back to work, they could hire someone to stay with the babies. It would all work out.

He looked like it didn't matter. "Sure, we'll give it a try," he said. "I _am_ pretty psyched about the book store deal. But you know, if it's too much, I mean, damn, it's Hurley's money. He's got more than enough. He can write this business venture off as a total loss."

**Errr . . . this is me petering out. Another kind of weird ending. Oh well. Hey, Happy Thanksgiving everybody! I know it's a week away, but no way I'll be back before then. Oh yeah, thanks Mad Steph -- I took your "summary" suggestion. **


	28. Holidays with the Fords

Somewhere from the dreamy, distorted depths of sleep she heard a phone ringing. Or maybe not. It would go away.

"Didn't think you were on call tonight." That was a little clearer – because it was directly in her ear.

"I'm not," she managed to mumble while reaching out an arm. She smacked her hand around on the end table a few times before landing on her cell phone. She glanced at the clock – 3:16 AM. What the hell?

"Hello?" she croaked into the phone.

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm so sorry to call you at this hour. I know you were asleep, but I had to call. I'm so sorry, I just didn't know what else to do, and I thought about waiting . . ."

The voice was frantic, babbling, and familiar.

"Nancy?!" Juliet sat straight up, dislodging James, who had been snuggled into her back. "What's going on?!"

"I'm in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. It doesn't look good, sweetie, and I just . . . I needed to call . . ."

"Nancy, slow down. What's happened? Is it Dad?"

"He's having another heart attack. This time it seems really bad." Juliet could hear the tears behind her step-mother's words. "He hasn't regained consciousness. I know this is an awful lot to ask, but can you meet us at the hospital? Please? Rachel can't leave Julian alone, and I just need someone . . ."

Juliet agreed, of course. She told Nancy to tend to Dad – she'd be at the hospital ASAP. She dressed quickly, filling James in, and headed downstairs.

She stopped in the kitchen, suddenly paralyzed with indecision. Should she call Rachel? Rachel couldn't leave Julian alone -- she really couldn't do anything but sit home and worry. Better to let her sleep. Then again, if something really bad was going to happen or if Dad was only going to regain consciousness for a little bit, wouldn't Rachel want to be there? She should be allowed to decide for herself. If she wanted, she could bring Julian over here. But getting an 8-year-old out of bed at 3:30 in the morning sounded like a terrible idea. Rachel really would be confronted with no good options . . . better to let her sleep. And round and round. Juliet couldn't make up her mind, so just stood, staring at the wreck of a kitchen. She really should have cleaned it up before going to bed.

They'd spent the afternoon at the pumpkin patch. Or, well, the front lawn of the local high school, where the band was selling pumpkins, spiced cider, and hayrides as a fundraiser for a trip to the Rose Bowl Parade. As jarring as Christmas in Miami could be – candy canes and beach bashes, evergreen wreaths and palm trees, decorative snowmen in the near-80º heat – she often found the faux autumn at Halloween even more absurd. The tuba players sweating in their overalls and plaid flannels taking kids on a hayride; the smell of crisp apples and the taste of warm apple cider in the muggy, humid air; the pumpkin patch set amongst the palm trees. But it was Halloween – one of the handful of holidays James jumped into feet first, and so, there they were, at the "pumpkin patch," sweating and squinting against the sun.

Jay ran through the pumpkins. "Here's a good one!" He shouted, holding up a tall, oblong pumpkin.

"Nah." James shook his head. He was particular.

"What about this one?" Jay pointed to an enormous pumpkin – as high as his knees.

"Too big," judged James. "We gotta be able to pick it up and get it outta the car when we get home. You gotta find a good round one – not too big, but not too little, either. Look for one that's just the size of Mom's tummy."

She looked at him over the top of her sunglasses, but couldn't even manage a glare. He wasn't looking at her in that "ha, ha, got your goat," way he so often did. He wasn't even looking at her -- he wasn't trying to get her goat. He was simply trying to give easy-to-follow instructions.

In fact, he didn't realize what he'd done until Jay took his instructions very literally. Every pumpkin he picked up he dutifully held to Juliet's belly to make his judgment. "Nope. Too small," "Too big," "Too lumpy." When James realized what he had wrought, he began to laugh.

"OK! Enough, you two. Stop using me as your pumpkin template. Pick some, and let's go," she said when she was finally tired of being laughed at.

After dinner that night, they put down newspaper on the kitchen table to let the carving begin. They'd settled on three pumpkins. Jay wanted a "mean one," and James was planning a "surprised one." ("Ya know, with a mouth like an 'O'.") While James carved and Jay dug out pumpkin seeds, they discussed what to do with the third pumpkin. Whenever Jay got a big handful of pumpkin innards, he'd shove it Juliet's face. "Look, Mom! Gross! Pumpkin guts. Oozy, slimy pumpkin guts." She'd pretend to be grossed out, even though they were nowhere near as gross as human guts. Or slices of orange, quite frankly. She said a silent thank you that Halloween didn't involve orange carving.

She kept busy pinning rags to an old pair of Jay's jeans and artfully ripping holes in a too-small shirt. He wanted to be a hobo for Halloween. That seemed a delightfully odd and retro costume choice, until she remembered it's what Julian had been last year. She was concentrating on fraying the hem of his sleeve when James remarked, "Bring back fond memories?"

She looked at him curiously. What was he talking about?

"You know, just fixin' up the rags. Gettin' all dolled up in Others gear."

She set Jay's shirt on the table, and fixed a hurt stare on James. For a beat, she said nothing. The only noise in the room was the squelching sounds Jay made pulling out pumpkin guts. Finally she said, "Seriously? Really? Is there nothing I can ever do to make you stop making those jokes?"

James looked around the kitchen, making a big show of pondering everything – the refrigerator covered in Jay's art, his soccer schedule, Juliet's on-call schedule; Jay holding up his latest fistful of "oozy, slimy pumpkin guts;" the big stack of books on the kitchen counter, ready for eBay shipment. Finally, he looked her over from head to toe. He shook his head. "Nah. I ain't never gonna stop with those jokes." He laughed when he said it, though, and reached over to put a hand on her knee. He leaned in to kiss her.

"Ewwwwwwww! Gross!" Jay exclaimed – not at the pumpkin guts all over his hands, but at the spectacle of his parents kissing. James stopped kissing her long enough to look over at Jay, but turned back to give her an exaggerated, face-sucking kiss. "UGH! Get a room!" Jay yelped.

James broke away. "Where'd you learn that phrase, champ?" he asked.

"Julian," Jay answered. (_Of course_)

"And what do you think it means?" asked Juliet.

"It means it's gross when you're kissing and stuff. You got to go to a different room and do that gross stuff in private."

James clapped his hands together once, slapped them on his thighs, and jerked his thumbs in the vague direction of upstairs. "Come on, babe," he said. "You heard the kid – let's head upstairs." He stood up, held out a hand to help her out of her chair.

"But Dad! What about the surprised pumpkin?!" Jay looked horrified at the idea his parents might actually abandon him for upstairs, leaving the pumpkin carving unfinished.

"Ah, good point," James answered, and sat back down. Juliet returned to fraying Jay's sleeve. Truth be told, this absolutely _did_ remind her of an Others activity, but no way in hell was she telling James that.

They'd gotten the pumpkins carved without further incident – the third pumpkin was supposed to be a cat, but looked more like a smiling pumpkin with bad acne. James took Jay upstairs to get him bathed and ready for bed. Juliet set to cleaning the kitchen, but Rachel called and distracted her, and by the time James came back downstairs, she'd only just started washing dishes.

He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. He lifted the hair from her shoulder and kissed her neck. "It comes to my attention," he said, "that we already got our own private room upstairs." He pulled her closer, so she could rest fully up against him. She looked around the kitchen, though, at the piles of pumpkin guts sitting on newspaper, the rag scraps on the floor around the kitchen table, dinner dishes sitting right next to the sink. "Let me just finish up in here," she said.

"All right," he agreed, and she was somewhat surprised he didn't put up more of a fight. But he didn't let her go, and he went back to kissing her neck.

"James . . ." she started.

"Don't mind me," he said. "You just keep right on doing those dishes."

"If you helped, I'd be done a lot sooner."

"Good point," he conceded, but went right back to kissing her neck.

So she hadn't done any more cleaning. Now it was 3:30 in the morning, and the kitchen was a complete disaster zone. She looked in dismay at the dishes next to the sink, the pumpkin guts beginning to crust over on the table. And she still hadn't decided whether to call Rachel.

"You OK?" James asked, entering the kitchen.

His casual tone bothered her. She choked back tears. "Of course not! My dad may be dying!"

"Hey, hey," he softened. "I just mean why're you zoned out in the kitchen instead of on the way to the hospital?"

"Because the kitchen's a wreck, and I can't decide if I should call Rachel."

To James' credit, he didn't make any kind of smart remark about how the cleanliness of the kitchen had nothing to do with calling her sister. Instead he said, "Ain't nothin' she can do at 3:30 in the morning. Call her at six. Let her get at least a halfway decent night's sleep."

She appreciated his certainty. Yes, six was early, but not too early. Maybe they'd have more details by then. She blinked back the tears threatening to fall, and nodded firmly. Good plan. James continued then. "As for the kitchen, don't worry about it. I'll leave it just like this, and you'll have plenty to clean up as soon as you get home." He winked, and she laughed. God, how could she be laughing at a time like this?

He took both her hands in his. "Now get going. Call me when you hear anything, OK? I'll just tell Jay you got called in to the hospital . . .and speaking of, I know it's Monday morning now, but promise me you don't start working first chance you get? OK? I know you're just a few floors away, but take the day off – got it?"

Work was always a good way to take her mind off things . . . She mentally crossed her fingers, then nodded in agreement.

He narrowed his eyes. He knew she wasn't quite ready to give up the idea of doing a little work when she got a chance. So, he crouched down, and spoke directly to her stomach. "Listen up, kiddoes. If she starts tryin' to do too much, I want you guys to start kickin' the shit outta her, OK?"

"Don't curse at them," she chided.

"Don't run yourself ragged," he countered. "Now, seriously, get going. Nancy's gonna start to worry."

* * *

When the elevator doors opened onto the cardiac floor, Nancy was there in the lobby, pacing, waiting to greet her. "Thank God, Juliet, I don't know how much longer I could take being here alone," she said, taking both her hands and squeezing them. Her next words came out in rapid-fire succession. "Oh dear, I shouldn't have called you, you should still be sleeping, but I just can't handle this alone and you can talk to the doctors better than I can. Oh, James probably hates me for getting you out of bed at this hour, but really, sweetheart, I didn't know what else . . ."

Juliet cut her off. "Nancy," she said gently, but Nancy kept on. Juliet tried again, "Nancy!" she barked. Nancy went silent and looked stunned. "Sorry," Juliet apologized for yelling at her step-mother. "Just calm down. It's OK. I'm glad you called – I'm glad I'm here. Let's sit." She guided Nancy to the seats in the waiting room. Seated, she looked directly into Nancy's eyes. "Stop worrying about me. Let's focus on Dad. Tell me what happened, what's going on now."

Nancy recounted the events of the evening, and filled her in on what she knew of Dad's current status – not much. He still hadn't regained consciousness. Other than that, she knew nothing. "The doctor's aren't telling me anything."

"That means they're busy working. That's not a bad sign. They won't tell you anything until they get to a stopping point."

Nancy nodded, smiled. "Right. I knew I wanted you here for a reason."

So they sat. And waited. Juliet watched the minutes on the waiting room clock tick by excruciatingly slowly. The moment the little hand hit the six and the big hand hit the twelve, she was going to call Rachel. She chuckled internally at her "little hand, big hand" time formulation. Next time Jay complained about having to learn to tell time ("It's all digital, Mom."), she'd pull this one out. _If Dad is dying of a heart attack, and you are waiting to call the twins to tell them about it, and the waiting room only has an analog clock . . ._ Or maybe not. Maybe she'd stick to, "It's important because I say so."

Anytime anyone walked by, Nancy would jerk her head up and follow them with her eyes until they passed out of sight. Still no news. Still they waited. Juliet felt an eerie sense of déjà vu. Had it been more than five years ago that she stepped out of the elevator onto this very floor to hear about Dad? Five years? Because it seemed like yesterday. And it seemed like another lifetime entirely.

She'd been so desperate to get here. So desperate that she drove through the night with a stranger. Someone she thought was a stranger, at least. And the next day, she sat here, waiting for news of Dad's bypass. She remembered how lonely she felt. Nancy was allowed back to see Dad; Rachel ran off quickly to get Julian settled with the babysitter; Juliet sat in the waiting room all alone. Maybe as lonely as she'd ever felt in her life. Until James called. She remembered how desperately forlorn she was, how his phone call was like a lifeline, and how she'd gone to bed with this complete stranger . . .

Yep, it had been a little more than five years ago that she sat right here, perhaps in this very chair. But the loneliness of that life seemed so foreign to her now. Without that day, there would be no Jay. "It's all digital, Mom," she imagined him again. A tiny little copy of his father, but his words so matter of fact, straightforward, no-nonsense. How what he said could seem so innocent and guileless, and then he'd smirk at her. "It's all digital, Mom." Smirk. She found it alternately annoying and endearing. She complained about it once to James. "You're kidding, right?" he'd asked.

"No," she said. "That smirk can be really annoying. Like he thinks he knows more than the rest of us."

James looked at her wide-eyed for a minute. "Seriously?" he asked.

"It doesn't bother you?"

"No. No, it hasn't bothered me for a long time," he said, then shook his head at her like she was a crazy person.

Finally, finally, the big hand hit the 12 and the little hand hit the 6. She called Rachel. Still no news from the doctors. Dad was still unconscious.

When both the big and little hands hit the 6, a man in a white coat entered the waiting room. Nancy stood up, excitedly. But it was just Harris, Juliet's intern. He came bearing a cardboard tray, strawberry yogurt, a banana, half an everything bagel (toasted) with cream cheese, and a half-caf coffee. Harris was a sweet guy. But seriously? Was she that predictable? Or was he such a sycophant that he'd memorized her daily breakfast? It's not like she ate breakfast at work every day.

She joked, "Boy, I'm predictable, huh?"

"Your husband called and told me what to get."

Oh, poor Harris. They'd finally gotten back on even ground a few months back when she explained to him why she'd been acting so weird, why oranges were verboten, why she sometimes just fled his presence for the bathroom. Poor, brilliant, self conscious, timid, whiz-kid Harris began to gain confidence around her.

And then? And then, one day he found a man roaming the back halls. How and why Kristi the receptionist let this guy back was a puzzle to Harris. This man didn't belong -- he was wearing dusty work boots, ratty jeans, a dirty t-shirt, poking his head in the drug lock-up, the seminar room, the break room. Harris, recently filled with new self confidence, confronted the guy, who claimed to be Juliet's husband. Harris was no dummy. Juliet's husband managed a book store. Whoever this fellow was, he wasn't Juliet's husband.

Harris put on his best voice-of-God, I'm-a-doctor, I-know-what's-best voice, and asked the man to leave. Mistake. James hates doctors (well, _most _doctors -- he's learned to make, as he says, "one fuckin' exception"). He especially hates when doctors talk to him like he's an ignorant hick. He hates how they just assume they are the smartest, most noble people around. Screw them (not literally, of course -- OK, with one fuckin' exception). So, he stepped toward this small, cowardly looking fella, planning to intimidate him into submission. The scared-looking doctor boy backed up a few steps. Wow. This was going to be easier than he thought. Kristi came around the corner.

"Sorry, James. I gave you the wrong info. She's down at the dean's office. You want to wait?" Kristi batted her eyes, flirted with him. James looked at Harris. Harris had a look like he shit his pants. Poor Harris. But James couldn't really wait. He was just stopping by -- the building supply company happened to be two blocks from the hospital and he was on his way to pick up some materials.

Juliet returned from the dean's office half an hour later. Harris stuttered and hemmed and hawwed his way around her the rest of the afternoon. Confusing. Until Kristi told her James had stopped by. "I think he scared Harris," she said.

"That sounds about right," Juliet had admitted. Oh, poor Harris.

So, now what? James had just called and frightened Harris into bringing her breakfast? Oh, dear. Poor Harris.

"Mrs. Ford? Mrs. Ford?" Harris was now saying tentatively. Juliet looked at him over the rim of her yogurt cup. "Is your step-mom Mrs. Ford?" he asked.

Oh good lord, Harris could be clueless. _Of course_ her step-mom wasn't Mrs. Ford. Oh, Harris. He was so amazingly brilliant and mind-numbingly ignorant all at once. "Her name is Nancy, Harris."

Harris approached Nancy to ask if she, too, would like some breakfast. Sweet guy. Rachel arrived at 7. "My neighbor's getting Julian to school. James said he'd pick him up after."

Finally, a doctor came in at 7:30. Dad was stable, but still hadn't regained consciousness. "We'll just have to wait and see," he said. So they waited more. And waited. Nancy sat still in her seat, her arms wrapped tightly around her body. Rachel incessantly texted (who was she texting so frantically? Juliet wondered). Juliet read the paperback she'd stuffed in her bag, but that wasn't really making the time go by any faster. She thought idly about seeing if there was anything she could do down on her floor, but she remembered James' warning. Actually, she was starting to get rather tired. The couch in her office began to seem wholly inviting. But she didn't want to leave Nancy and Rachel up here to wait alone. She read some more. Rachel kept texting.

"Who are you texting?"

"None of your beeswax."

Fine . . maybe she'd just go take a quick power nap. She could play the pregnancy sympathy card.

Her power nap ended up lasting more than two hours. When she returned to the cardiac floor waiting room, she was dismayed to learn she'd missed an important turn of events. Nancy approached. "He's awake! The doctors are in with him now. When they leave, you have to go talk sense into him." Noticing Juliet's baffled look, she continued. "They say his heart is irreparably damaged. It will probably hold up for another year. But there's an experimental treatment -- he says he doesn't want it. You have to talk sense to him."

Not long after, she got her chance. Rachel was down in the cafeteria getting lunch. Nancy was making calls to various neighbors and friends, and she gestured to Juliet in a little "get going" hand signal. "Hold on a minute," she said to whoever she was speaking with. She put down her phone. "Go talk sense into that stubborn old bastard."

Dad looked gray, washed out, and 10 years older than when she'd seen him last. He turned his eyes to see her walk in, but didn't so much as move his head. With his right hand, lying limply on the bed next to him, he waved her over. She bent down to kiss him, sat next to him, and took his hand.

"Nancy says you're being a stubborn old bastard."

Dad rolled his eyes. Smirked. "She wants me to agree to this experimental treatment."

"She told me that."

"Did she tell you it's in New York?" he asked.

"She didn't mention that, no."

"Well, it is. It's entirely experimental, and I can spend a good bit of the next year up in New York for no reason at all. No thank you," he sounded weak, but petulant.

"So they say you have a year. You won't be able to golf, to fix cars, go to sporting events . . . all the things you love," she reasoned with him.

"No. If I spend the year in New York -- _**then**_ I won't be able to do the things I love. I can't sit on the porch swing with my wife if I go to New York. I can't take my daughters to lunch and watch them bicker. I can't watch my son-in-law pretend he's interested in my engineering stories. I can't build Lego's with my grandsons. I won't be around to rock my new grandbabies. These docs say there's no guarantees. And hell if I'm spending the last year of my life all the way up there."

"Maybe you should just consider it, Dad. At least for Nancy."

"I am doing this for her. For all of you. This experimental treatment? Come on, sweetie, you know as well as anyone that it's a crapshoot. I might not make it past a year even if I do it. And instead of spending this year with my family, I'll spend it back and forth to New York. Insurance won't cover travel or living expenses. Nancy will be in debt. She'll spend the whole year away from all her friends . . ." he drifted off. Turned to look at her. She was blinking back tears. She squeezed his hand tighter.

It sounded like he was giving up. "Dad, no . . ." she started.

"It's okay," he said, calmly and firmly. "It's okay," he repeated. "Sometimes, for the people you love, you just have to learn when it's okay to let go." To demonstrate, he lifted his hand, still holding hers, from the bed. He dramatically dropped her hand, allowing it to fall limply to his bedside.

She watched in seeming slow motion as her hand slipped out of her dad's. Her blood ran to ice. The room suddenly felt dark and dank. There was a pounding in her head, and she felt the onset of tunnel vision. Sweat trickled down her back. She had a sick realization that she was going to pass out. Her eyelids began to flutter, just as her dad put his large, warm hand back down on hers. He patted it. At his touch, the room grew brighter, warmer. She regained some bit of equilibrium.

"You'll understand one day," he said.

"I understand, Daddy," she barely whispered. _Oh, I understand. I understand._

"So, you'll tell Nancy to back off?" he asked.

"Scared to do it yourself, Dad?" she sassed at him.

"Don't smirk at me, young lady."

* * *

Everyone in Nancy and Dad's house seemed pleasantly occupied. Rachel was in the living room, picking up discarded wrapping paper. Dad was busy helping Julian and Jay with the Lego sets Santa brought them both. James was on the back deck talking to Clementine. They'd sent an American Girl doll, and she'd called, squealing, to thank him. Nancy was alone in the kitchen, washing dishes. A cozy family holiday. Juliet half imagined a roaring fire, and the lot of them decked out in fuzzy, Christmas-themed sweaters. Except it was nearing 80 degrees.

No one was stating the obvious. _Probably Dad's last Christmas_. He'd been in the hospital a month, and home now for nearly another month. Nancy had long since dropped the pleading for him to go to New York for treatment. She understood what he wanted. But it was difficult for all of them (the adults at least), fully understanding that chances were good Dad wouldn't be around this time next year. Juliet peeked in at Nancy in the kitchen. She was facing away, busy scrubbing baking dishes.

"Need any help?" she asked her step-mother.

Nancy turned to face her, and Juliet was surprised to NOT see tears streaming down her cheeks. She'd assumed Nancy was ensconced at the sink to have a good cry. Her eyes were sad, though. She looked at Juliet as if she hadn't heard her question.

"Anything I can do to help you?" she asked again.

"Sure. Sit down right over there," Nancy gestured at the kitchen table, "and keep me company."

Easy enough. Or not. What was she supposed to say? _So, just thinking about how this is probably your husband's last Christmas? _

Nancy spoke. "I used to say all I wanted was for us to grow old together. I guess when I said that, I thought 70 _was_ old. Now I'm wishing I'd been more specific." She chuckled, a little mirthless laugh. "It all goes by so fast."

Juliet wanted to comfort her, say the right things, and was struggling to think what those right things were. _I __**still**__ think 70 is old_ seemed heartless.

Rachel appeared at the doorway. "Steve says he can come for dinner tonight." Steve was her new boyfriend, the person she'd been mysteriously texting when Dad had been so sick.

"If he's so great, why are we only just meeting him now?" Juliet inquired.

"Oh. My. God," started Rachel, in that exaggerated way she always used when her little sister was irritating her. "You can be so un-self-aware sometimes, you know that? Because I'm reminded of a 4th of July picnic . . ."

Nancy interrupted. "Rachel can you help me dry these?" She indicated the sink full of dishes.

"Why does she just get to sit there doing nothing?" Rachel complained, waving at Juliet, sitting. She was smiling, though, as was Nancy. It didn't take a whole lot of time under the same roof for the girls to fall into the old, time-worn patterns of their relationship. Sniping, teasing, laughing . . . there was something very comforting about it all

* * *

Lying in bed that Christmas night, she had trouble concentrating on her book. She just couldn't stop thinking of Nancy's words. "It all goes by so fast." Time was such a weird thing. Hell, who knew that better than she did? But even in the real world, it did weird things. The budget meeting earlier this week. That had only been an hour, but seemed to last at least a month. On the other hand, it seemed like she simply blinked and her dad had turned into an old man.

She looked over to James, intensely concentrating on his book. His glasses were perched at the end of his nose. The little gray that had begun dotting his temples a few years ago was creeping further into his hairline. And his stubble was nearly half gray. He shaved pretty much every morning because of it.

He noticed her stare, put his thumb in his book, shut it, turned to her. "What? What're you lookin' at?"

"Just never imagined being married to an old man."

He immediately raked his fingers through his hair. Doing so, he believed, hid most of the gray. He was touchy about this. She probably shouldn't have said it. She winced internally, and was getting ready to apologize, to say she actually thought he looked good with the gray (and that was true, she did think that).

He didn't give her a chance, though. Instead, gave her a once-over and commented, "Well, I never imagined being married to a fat broad, so I guess we're even." He winked.

OK, she deserved that. Although she was starting to get as touchy about that as he was about his gray. She was as big – no bigger – than she'd ever been before Jay was born. And had at least another six weeks to go? Hell. She didn't need winking little reminders from James of all people. She made a mental note to, in the future, keep all mention of his age and his gray hair to herself. She picked up her book again and began reading.

She hadn't gotten more than half a page read when he put his book on the bedside table and turned to her, scooching close to her side. He was talking in a thin, reedy voice that she quickly realized was supposed to be his "old man voice."

"Well, babe, I think my Viagra just kicked in."

She could feel that, yes, that was the case. "You cannot be serious," she said.

"Sorry, sweetheart, but even elderly gentlemen such as myself have needs. What? You think ain't up to it? Those little blue pills work magic, ya know."

She rolled her eyes. "I wasn't thinking about you being old. I was thinking about me being fat."

"Ah, well, I ain't picky," he scoffed.

"Oh my God," she declared.

"What?"

"That was supposed to be your opening to say something like 'I think you look beautiful,' not to say you 'ain't picky'."

"Oh, come on. If I'd said that, you would have totally given me crap about that, too. You would have said something like, 'Don't be patronizing, James,' or some shit like that."

Yes, she probably would have. The whole time they were having this ridiculous old man vs. the fat broad argument, though, he'd been nuzzling closer. Now he whispered in her ear. "How 'bout this. Merry Christmas, love."

"Not bad," she replied, and turned to kiss him.

**Ay yi yi yi yi that ending was sappy! Oh well. **

**So, if you are a fan of the other story, DON'T WORRY, I am going to get back to it, I just want to finish this one first (which I know I've said before), and I think there's not much more for this story (and I know I've said THAT before, too), so I'm just trying to get it DONE, and move on to the other one.**

**Thanks for staying with me on this one! I should just state for the record that I know absolutely nothing about heart attacks, heart treatment, etc., so I am sure there's NOTHING realistic in the whole heart attack scenario bit, but . . .**


	29. Life and Death

**Hey, so if you are over on The Fuselage, and recently said something nice about this fic, I wanted to say thank you. I got booted from there before I had the chance to properly acknowledge. So, thanks!**

_September 2016_

He'd long since collected his luggage and hiked over to the exit to the other terminal. With a bit of time on his hands, he called Juliet. She didn't answer, of course. She was at work, and getting through to her there was one of life's more difficult tasks. So, he left a simple message. "Hey, made it here safely. Waiting to pick up my 'date.' Anyway, I'll call again when I get settled. Say hey to the kids. Love you."

He thought of calling Hurley to let him know he was safely on the ground in LA. But, no. The big guy had more than enough going on, he was sure of that. James had never met Hurley's mom, but Hugo was quite possibly the best, most generous, most honest friend he'd ever had. For friends like that, you show up at their mom's funeral, even if you'd never laid eyes on the woman.

He waited, and was equally irritated and relieved to see the flight he was waiting for was delayed. When he found out that she, too, would be travelling unaccompanied, they'd agreed to be companions for their time in LA. They'd share a car, get rooms at the same hotel, eat meals together. It had seemed like a good, practical idea at the time. Now he nervously dreaded it.

Their relationship, such that it was, had its share of pitfalls. But he certainly hoped that was all water under the bridge now. Surely. But just the two of them together for such long stretches? Would the past come up? If so, would he apologize? He kept waiting.

According to the monitors, her flight landed 10 minutes ago. He watched the crowds streaming out of the terminal toward baggage claim. He searched for a dark head of long hair, but she was short enough that he missed her until she was right there in front of him. He opened his arms for a greeting hug. He'd keep conversation banal and easy for as long as possible.

"How was your flight?" he asked.

"Long," she answered. "But I am here now."

He pointed the direction toward her baggage carousel. "And how are the kids?" He asked. He'd already decided that if push came to shove, they could just talk about kids all weekend long.

"Good," she answered. "Although I am worried. Ji Yeon is something of a diva, and Jin is wrapped around her little finger. I am afraid when I return, she will be running the house." James laughed at the image. He imagined Jin trying to wrangle his tween daughter and her little sister. "How are your kids?" Sun now asked.

"Fine," he said. "No divas, I'm glad for that. Jay's got something of a smart mouth on him, though . . . actually, all three of 'em are kinda smart mouths to be honest."

"And this surprises you?" she asked.

"No," he admitted, nodding concession. "I guess not. They come by it honest."

He'd never spent time with just Sun. He'd kept up with Jin, sure, and they'd seen each other a good bit over the past ten years. But it was always somehow OK if Jin or Juliet were around. They were like buffers. He was never quite sure if he'd completely gained Sun's trust, and now they had to spend all this time together. When was Sun going to bring up the kidnapping? Sure, it was what? Thirteen years ago? Or, technically, come on, that had never happened. But he had to admit that orchestrating the kidnapping of a pregnant lady just to prove a point was pretty damn low. Besides, even if she never brought it up, what was there to talk about? They really had nothing in common. Why the hell had he let Juliet talk him into thinking this was a good idea?

They picked up their rental car, and while their ride to the hotel was long, he was surprised it wasn't awkward. In fact, discussing dinner plans led to the realization that he and Sun had a lot more in common than he ever guessed.

When he'd landed in LA and turned on his phone, he found a voicemail from Kate. She and Jack were inviting them for dinner. Hell. That didn't sound particularly appealing. But, shit, wasn't he supposed to be all grown up now? Mature? Willing and able to do things he didn't particularly care to do? He didn't call back immediately. Maybe Sun would be too tired from her insanely long trip. Sun would be his excuse out of this.

They were idled in LA Freeway traffic. "So, Kate called and invited us over to their place for dinner. I didn't call back yet – figured you might be tired or something."

"Thank you," she said. "You are right. I'd rather not go."

_Sweet. _"OK. Well, she also mentioned lunch tomorrow . . ."

"No thank you. That does not sound appealing," Sun answered.

"Ohhhhkayy." He glanced at her sideways. It didn't sound very appealing to him, either. Still, what was Sun's deal? She sounded kind of harsh. Then again, maybe it was just her slightly stilted English. He'd like to ask, but his uneasiness and insecurity around her kept him silent. The silence stretched a little longer. He considered making some lame-ass comment about the weather or traffic or some such shit.

She spoke first, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "Everything has turned out for the best, so I should not feel this way."

And that was it for a little bit. Feel what way, he wondered. More silence.

She cleared her throat, spoke again. "When I am around Jack and Kate I cannot help but think of our last day on the Island. Did Jin ever tell you what happened?"

James nodded. He sure did. After Jin explained, as best he could in broken English, that the helicopter made it safely off the freighter, a huge, heavy load had lifted from James' shoulders. Yes. He could very clearly remember Jin telling him about "what happened."

Sun kept on. "I realize it is not their fault. They were doing what they thought was best." At this, James scoffed, and Sun smiled sadly. "Still, I am not a very forgiving person."

Chilling words. Damn. Sun could be frightening. And did he detect a coded message there? Fuck it, he'd just ask outright. "Should I be worried? Given that I, you know, arranged your kidnapping?" He chuckled, trying to sound light-hearted.

She turned to him, face of stone. Shit. But she smiled quickly, put a hand on his arm. "You look afraid, James," she laughed. He swallowed, still not 100% sure he was out of the woods. She continued, "No, I have forgiven you."

He nodded. "I am so sorry, you know," he managed.

She shrugged off his apology. He gathered it was no longer needed. "I should forgive them too," she said. "They are really not at fault. But I saw him die. I was there, looking down from above, and I saw how afraid he was. How desperate. You cannot imagine what . . ." Sun abruptly stopped talking. James cleared his throat. Traffic was moving more steadily now, and the low thrum of the car's engine was the only sound to break the silence.

The two sat stewing in memories until Sun began to giggle. Her giggle morphed into an outright laugh. Finally she caught her breath. "I cannot believe that the one person on Earth who knows _exactly_ what I mean is you, Sawyer."

Checked into the hotel, he called Kate. He reluctantly RSVP'd a "yes," for lunch tomorrow. He'd be coming alone. Sun had a "conference call she needed to dial into." Lie, lie, lie. He had to admit, he kind of liked this unforgiving, hard-ass, lying version of Sun. They had quite a fun dinner together in the hotel restaurant.

"See, what did I tell you? I knew you two would get along great." That was Juliet, on the phone later that night – after he'd caught up on the standard, crazy, whirlwind day that was life at home.

"Yeah, well, now I gotta go to Jack and Kate's for lunch by myself. I mean, shit. I guess I gotta bone up on my doctor talk, golf courses and country clubs and whatever. Hell, how am I supposed know what fancy doctor people talk about in their off time?"

An extended pause on the other end of the line. Well, shit. That had been an idiotic thing to say, hadn't it? He was getting ready to chuckle at himself, call himself a dumbass, but she beat him to it.

"My goodness, James. Why, that _is_ a dilemma. What in the _world _do doctors talk about? I have no idea. Perhaps you can make a joke about hospital gowns. I'm sure they don't hear that one too much."

"Ha ha ha, smartass. But, you know what I mean," he said.

"No. Not really. Just talk about Aaron. Or Claire. Or Hurley's mom. I'm sure you'll figure it out."

* * *

He slept in, enjoyed his morning. Now_ this_ he could get used to. No need to referee fights over what's on the TV, no arguments over whose turn it was to fix the kids' lunch, no howls of protest over the firm decision that "you cannot wear the same FSU t-shirt three days in a row," no asking "has anyone taken the dog out this morning?," no mad scramble to get the whole crew out the door on time. Instead, he sat on the balcony, propped up his feet, sipped coffee, read the paper. Ahhhhh . . . the life.

And then, luckily for him, Jack got called to the hospital at the last minute. Even better, with Jack out of the picture, Sun gritted her teeth and decided to "be mature" and come with James to lunch.

For the first 15 minutes, he didn't have to say anything as Kate exclaimed over Sun's handbag. Funny, he never pictured Kate as the type to drool over the "It" bag of the season. Sun, either, for that matter. But the topic was safe, and he didn't really have to say anything.

Jack and Kate's house was perfect – neat, well-appointed, almost shiny. Quiet, too. He could hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchen. He could see Aaron out in the back yard, tossing a football with a friend. The windows were all closed up tight, though, so he couldn't hear the boys laughing.

And suddenly, just like that, he was terribly homesick. He kind of hated this too quiet, too perfect house. He was willing to bet there were no crushed up goldfish crackers under the couch cushions. No barely controlled chaos. No ringing laughter. No "he started it." No shrieks or mysterious crashes or tears. No giggles. No piles of shin guards. No teetering stacks of books.

He wondered what was going on at home. The plan was for Jay to spend last night at Julian's, which probably meant he stayed up way too late and was an absolute cranky pants horror show today. Mary had soccer this morning. Her game was probably long over. He should call to see how she did. So, Juliet had to drag Greg around with her to watch the match.

Greg would, as usual, be full of questions. Most kids were. Unlike most kids, though, Greg usually didn't buy the standard answers. Before the Mary and Greg were born, for instance, Jay asked how the babies got in Mom's tummy. Juliet spouted off, probably word for word, something she'd read in some parenting book somewhere. "See, when a Mom and a Dad love each other very much . . ." James remember how funny it all was. She'd written volumes on just this topic – densely referenced and researched with charts, graphs, microscopic images --- and here she was blabbing on about "When a Mom and a Dad love each other . . ." Talk about dumbing it down! Besides that, in this particular case, the truth was more along the lines of "One night, Mom and Dad were _really_ mad at each other . . " Whatever. Jay bought the whole thing hook, line, and sinker.

So, when Greg asked the exact same question about their across-the-street neighbor, James and Juliet trotted out the same pabulum. "When a mom and dad love each other . . ." No go. Greg needed more details. "But how?" "Well, where does sperm come from?" Ugh. How horrible, awkward, and embarrassing _that _conversation was.

So, today at soccer when he was sure to ask why Emma's dad was yelling at the coach, and Juliet gave some unacceptable non-answer, he'd just keep asking till he found out what he wanted. Ha! Juliet – the Queen of the Non-Answer stymied by her own 5-year old!

"How about you, James?"

Huh? Kate and Sun were looking at him. "Sorry?"

"I think Hurley wants a bunch of us to come for dinner tonight after the funeral. Are you in?" Kate asked.

* * *

The rest of the day was a whirlwind. They left Jack and Kate's, got ready for the funeral. Somehow, their GPS steered them wrong, and he and Sun had to dash through a few parking lots to get to the church on time. They sat in the back – not a bad thing. They could sit back here and see who else was in attendance. Jack, Kate, and Aaron, of course. Miles a few rows up – he saw them dash in, rolled his eyes, threw up his hands at their tardiness. Sun elbowed James, pointed up toward the front – Sayid and Nadia. Holy shit. Last time he saw Sayid, he'd been bleeding out in the back of a Dharma van.

The reception after was great and weird. He was surprised how glad he was to see so many of these people, but then some stranger would ask, "How do you know Carmen?" or "How do you know Hugo?" and he'd look lamely at Sun, or Miles, or Sayid, or whoever he happened to be standing with, and they'd hem and haw and each come up with some lame half-baked answer. Not that anyone cared. They'd simply nod and move on. Ha! The 815 survivors were lucky little 5-year-old Greg Ford wasn't here. No way he'd buy any of their bullshit.

When they all joined up for dinner at Hurley's, things were a little less awkward. Sayid didn't join them – Nadia didn't know the true story. So, there was nothing to hide from anyone. But there were only six of them – James, Sun, Hurley, Jack, Kate, and Miles – and it didn't take long for things to get maudlin as memories of all who couldn't possibly join them – Charlie, Shannon, Boone, Libby – seeped in.

James and Sun were the first to leave. They rode in silence most of the way back to the hotel, but it was a comfortable silence. The kind where you know it's OK not to say anything and be left alone with your thoughts.

He said goodbye to Sun at the airport the next morning and they both said the same old, same old about how they needed to make sure they got together more often. He was a little heavy-hearted as he watched her walk to her terminal – life was too busy, and he knew it would probably be later rather than sooner that he saw Sun and Jin again.

His dark mood lifted by the time he boarded his flight. He was on his way home. He couldn't wait.

* * *

A long day of cross country travel behind him, he pulled up to the curb at his house. Jay and Julian were occupying the driveway, shooting hoops. LaFleur, their big, dopey yellow Labrador was merrily bouncing back and forth between the two boys. The first words James heard upon his return home were Julian's: "Better make this shot, Jay, or you'll be a whore." James's first reaction was alarm, but he quickly gathered they were playing H-O-R-S-E, and Jay had already picked up an H and an O.

He watched from the car. Jay would make the shot. He was the youngest player on his under-12 team, but always the guy getting the last shot. In part because he was a good player, but also because pressure didn't rattle him, he had ice water in his veins, and he'd calmly narrow his eyes, take his shot, and win the game. God, he was his mother through and through. Sure enough, he calmly knocked down his shot in this driveway basketball game with his cousin.

"Dad!" he noticed James now. "Wanna shoot some hoops?" Jay approached, gave a little one-armed sideways hug, not gonna embarrass himself in front of Julian.

"Sure, bud. Let me go inside for a bit first, OK?" He squeezed his son on the shoulder, gave his nephew a high-five. He grabbed LaFleur by the collar, went through the kitchen door, and dragged the dog inside with him.

Whatever Juliet had cooking smelled great, but looked to be bubbling over on the stove. She was paying no attention, instead staring intently at a laptop on the kitchen counter. Shorts, t-shirt, hair pulled back in a ponytail. Man, she looked fantastic. Her black plastic, cats-eye glasses were perched on the end of her nose. He chuckled inwardly. Her one concession to age. The twins were still babies when he noticed her holding books at nearly arms length. "I think someone needs glasses!" he'd gleefully diagnosed, after years of her teasing him about his eyesight. But somehow, the glasses were it. No varicose veins on the gorgeous legs, no grays in that amazing head of hair, no crows' feet bracketing those dazzling eyes. He never knew whether to be jealous or turned on.

He approached from behind. "What's up four eyes?"

She replied with a stunning smile. "Hey, you!" a quick hug, and she pulled back for a kiss. And then LaFleur jumped to the counter to grab a piece of cheese, and the sauce on the stove bubbled over onto the eye with a loud hiss, and squeals and accusations and perhaps World War III was breaking out in the next room. Ah, home . . .

"I'll deal with them," he offered, as she turned to the stove to clean up. He reluctantly let her go and entered the family room.

"He pinched me!" but simultaneously: "She started it"

"How 'bout, 'Daddy! You're home! We've missed you so much!'" he suggested.

Mary narrowed her eyes, looked skeptical. She was basically Jay turned inside out. The spitting image of her mother, with her fine blonde hair and large blue eyes; her personality, though, was all James. She was slow to trust, quick to anger, and always on the make. She was only 5, but good lord, were they going to have their hands full when she hit her teen years.

"Welcome home, Daddy," she now sing-songed, in a voice that left no doubt that she thought it was stupid. "Greg pinched me."

"Yeah, well she called me 'mop top'," Greg complained.

Greg's hair had to be kept pretty darn short, or it would curl unmercifully in the Miami humidity. And, well, now it was NOT short, and curling up in ringlets all over his head like sandy-haired Little Orphan Annie. In fact, "Little Orphan Annie" would probably have been James' choice of nickname.

"Mary, how many times do I gotta tell you? Don't call people names," James reprimanded.

She scowled, jerked her head contemptuously. "Why?" she asked.

"Cause it makes 'em feel bad," he answered.

"But you just called Mommy 'four eyes'," Greg piped in.

Damn observant kid. Just like his older brother. Although, unlike Jay, who usually just observed and kept his mouth shut, Greg had to observe AND run his yap.

"Whose side are you on?" James asked his son.

Before the negotiating session could go on any longer, the front door flew open. "Dad, come on, you said you were gonna come shoot hoops." It was Jay.

"Hey guys," James turned to the twins. "How 'bout you to and me versus Jay and Julian?"

"Yeah! Let's kick their ass!" exclaimed Mary.

"Whoah, hold on there. Somebody's gonna have to sit in time out for a few minutes first. We do NOT use words like that, young lady." He kind of wanted to ask where she heard such a thing, but had more than an inkling that the answer would be "You, Daddy."

They headed out the door. "Dinner will be ready in ten minutes," Juliet called after them. But she had her head stuck back in the laptop, looking at research results, or published studies, or who knew what, and he knew she _said_ ten minutes, but they probably had at least thirty.

* * *

After their ballgame (James always made sure it was a tie), after their dinner (indeed, Juliet had been distracted, and they had more than half an hour for their game), after Rachel swung by to pick up Julian, after baths and bedtime stories and taking LaFleur out one last time, he entered the master bath to get ready for bed.

Juliet was already there, brushing her teeth, and wearing one of his all-time favorite, low-cut tank tops. She leaned forward to examine her gums in the mirror, and he snuck a peak at the gap in her shirt. Absurd. He was sometimes like the 13-year-old boy stealing a glance down the hot music teacher's shirt. Not the grown man who'd been sleeping with this woman for a dozen years, and had actually been up close and personal with what was under the shirt more times than he could count. She leaned over again, this time to scratch the side of her knee, and he couldn't help it, but stole another glance. When she stood upright, she stared him straight in the eye. No doubt she knew what he was up to. She finished brushing, rinsed, spit, put her toothbrush back, stood with a hand on her hip, looked at him somewhat mischievously. He grinned. He loved the times when they could read each others' minds.

She spoke. "LaFleur's on his last heartworm pill. Can you stop by the vet tomorrow and pick up a new prescription?"

Or, maybe not so much with that mind-reading thing. "Oooooh, baby," he said. "I love it when you talk heartworms." He moved closer, pulled her to him. "Now tell me about the lice outbreak at the elementary school," he whispered in her ear.

She giggled, put her hands on his hips, pushed him back toward the bedroom. "Just agree to go to the vet tomorrow, and I'll talk to you about _whatever_ you want." She said this while slipping her hands down the front of his pj bottoms, and she probably could get him to agree to go to the vet every day for the rest of the year, quite frankly, but he managed to say "sure thing," up against her mouth, and had he really only been gone two nights? He wanted to pick her up and pull her even closer, but he didn't want to do anything to disturb what was going on with her hands. So, he slid his hands up under her shirt, and was getting ready to get a good feel of every 13-year-old boy's wet dream fantasies . . .

A cough from near the door brought them up cold. Juliet's hands were out of his pants in an instant, and they stepped apart as if they had been shocked. James' hands, though, were now stuck in her shirt, and she twisted awkwardly to free them. Greg was standing at the door, sleepy-eyed, clutching his stuffed camel.

The room was dark, but not pitch dark, and James couldn't decide whether he should be relieved Greg didn't make his silent entrance five or ten minutes down the road or if he should be completely chagrined and embarrassed by what Greg had probably already seen. He felt himself blush. I mean, for Christ's sake. Seeing your mom and dad feeling each other up like a couple of horny teenagers has got to be the absolute worst thing for a kid to see in his parents' bedroom.

It hit him like a ton of bricks. OK, not that this wasn't a humiliating position to be caught in, and hell, he hoped it never happened again. But he was a man who _had _seen the absolute worst thing for a kid to see in his parents' bedroom, and it wasn't his mom and dad pleasuring each other. If the worst thing any of his kids saw in this bedroom was their mom with her hands down their dad's pants, he could live with that. Awkwardly and mortifyingly to be sure, but it wouldn't scar anyone for life – he hoped.

"I had a nightmare," Greg whispered.

James held out a hand. "OK buddy, let's go back to your room and get you settled in again." He glanced over at Juliet, but she had a hand covering her eyes. Yes, she was mortified.

Please, please, please be too sleepy to have noticed anything, James silently pleaded as they walked down the hall. Of all three children, Greg would not take BS answers at face value.

James got him tucked in. "Daddy, can I ask you something?" Shit. James nodded. Greg asked, "Did Uncle Hurley cry when his mom died?" James nodded again. Greg went on, "Even though he's a grown up?"

"Grown ups cry sometimes, too, buddy."

Greg thought on that for a minute. "Did Mommy cry when Granddad died?" James nodded sadly. Greg continued, "I was just a baby then, right?"

"That's right."

More thinking from Greg. James was just about ready to pat him on the leg, and get up to leave. Greg spoke. "You were just a little boy when your mommy and daddy died. Did you cry?"

"I cried a lot, for a long time."

"Mommy said they were in an accident. Was it a car accident?"

James shook his head no. Shit. Now's not the time for this, he thought. Greg was really too young to know the truth, so when he'd asked several months back they said it was an accident. When he got a little older, they could tell him more.

"Look, bud, I'll tell you about it someday, but now's not the time." Honesty.

"Does Jay know?" Greg asked. Yes, Jay knew. He was also 5 years older, and only heard the whole story about a year ago. You are just too young, Greg. But, shit, he knew his son, and he knew now that if he didn't say something, the little guy was going to go to another source – his older brother. That could get really bad.

"My daddy got really mad at my momma, and he was so mad that he shot her and then himself, too."

Greg's eyes widened in horror. Ah, shit, shit, shit. He really just should have come up with a lie. He'd been a professional liar, dammit -- he was certainly up to spinning a lie to fool a five-year-old. He just couldn't lie to his kids.

Greg spoke first. "You told Mommy to send that shipment of books out on Friday, but she forgot, and she forgot Saturday, too, and she put them in the box today, but she said the post office wasn't open on Sunday, so they are really late. And you made her promise to do it, and she said if you found out she forgot, you'd kill her."

Ah, Jesus F. Christ. What had he just gotten himself into? He felt his heart shatter into about a million little pieces. Poor kid. Ah, Jesus, now every time his parents even looked at each other crosswise was he going to freak out? _Shit, son,_ he wanted to say, _the maddest I ever been at your mom (in this lifetime at least) you wanna know what happened? You and your sister got made._

James put his hand under Greg's chin, turned the boy's face so he was looking directly at him. "Listen to me, Greg," he said. "I will never, ever do anything to hurt your mom. You understand that? Never." (Damn, Juliet was going to get off the hook so easy for forgetting that shipment – the one thing he'd asked her to do while he was gone. At this point, no way was he even going to raise his voice about it.)

Greg was nodding now. He seemed comforted. "You and Mommy were kissing when I came in your room" God damn. Out of the frying pan into the fire. "Cause you love her, right?" Greg asked.

"That's right." Please, please let that be the last of _that_.

"Good night, Daddy," Greg said, turning on his side to sleep. Thank you, thank you.

James walked down the hall to his bedroom waging an internal battle. Who would win? The man who needed to tell his wife about the load of psychic damage he'd just piled on their five-year-old son? Or the man who could still get more than a little turned on just sneaking a peak down his wife' shirt? That guy won. The other guy could have his say after the horny guy had his fill. James made sure to lock the bedroom door behind him.

**One more chapter to go. . .**


	30. 2040

**Hey! Good news. Turns out this actually isn't the last chapter. Bad news: it's really short. I haven't added to the story, but I just decided to split this into two parts, since the other part of this is written in a completely different style. **

_2040_

**Jeffrey "Mac" McKinnon**, long-time owner and manager of the Book Nook, died in 2018. In his will, he left his remaining stake in the shop to James. Hurley remains the silent majority partner.

**Dr. Harris Allen** was awarded the Nobel Prize for Medicine in 2036. Never married, he invited Juliet, his career-long mentor, to be his "date" for the awards ceremony in Stockholm. She swelled with pride as the presenters read his long list of accomplishments and discoveries; she cringed in embarrassment as he bumbled his way through several nights of cocktail parties.

**Bob "Bob Marley" Higgens** resisted multiple buyout offers for his small chain of LA-based coffee shops, until Starbucks made him an offer he couldn't refuse. He took his millions and moved to a lovely resort on a remote island in the South Pacific. For 25 years, he's invited his friends Hurley and the Fords to come stay for a few weeks every winter. For 25 years, his friends have always come up with some excuse not to come. They have never visited him in his island paradise.

**Cassidy Phillips** got married in 2016 and moved to Atlanta, Georgia, when her husband's job was transferred. Upon his retirement, they moved back to Albuquerque.

**Clementine Phillips** spent her high school years in Atlanta, and her high school summers in Miami. She had a summertime fling with Julian Carlson between her junior and senior years, making her father a nervous wreck. She graduated from the University of Georgia and is a real estate agent in Atlanta. She is married with three children.

**Nancy Carlson** lived to the ripe old age of 92. She never remarried. Although she was not biologically related, she is the grandparent most-remembered by her four grandchildren. She was a regular attendee of soccer games, dance recitals, and graduations. She lived long enough to see all four graduate from college.

**Rachel Carlson's** breast cancer returned in 2035, when Rachel was 66. She lived for two more years. She never married.

**Julian Carlson** is a narcotics detective with the Miami-Dade Police Department. He is twice-divorced, and the father of four.

**Sayid Jarrah** and his wife Nadia live in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Nadia has never adjusted to the winters, but Sayid refuses to move. According to his research, Minneapolis is the most pedestrian-friendly major city in the U.S. Nadia has never understood his obsession with this fact. They have two grown sons.

**Jack Shephard** and **Kate Austen** divorced in 2017. They fought a long and bitter custody battle over Aaron. They didn't speak for decades until Aaron forced Kate to attend Jack's retirement ceremony. While Jack and Kate currently maintain separate residences in L.A., they have become each other's constant companion and are now rarely seen apart.

**Hugo "Hurley" Reyes** reconnected with his old flame, Starla, at his mother's funeral. Starla was the divorced mom of a young son. Hurley adopted the boy when he and Starla married. Hurley continues to be the rock his friends rely on in times of need, which seems to be less often as the years roll on.

**Miles Straume** received brief fame as the winner of the 28th season of Survivor in 2018. Although never married, he always has a girlfriend he claims is "the one." His friend James tells him that "when you can honestly call a 55-year-old dame a 'younger woman,' it's time to give it up."

**Sun Kwon** was named the CEO of Paik Industries upon her father's death in 2019. **Jin Kwon** served as the company's quality control officer. They both retired a year ago, and their daughter, Joo-Eun, is the new CEO. Their daughter Ji-Yeon is a well-known Korean pop singer.

**James "Jay" Ford, Jr.** is a commander in the United States Navy's elite SEAL force. He has been recognized several times for valor, marksmanship, and calm under fire. He is stationed in San Diego, California, and lives there with his wife (a librarian) and two sons. In his spare time he enjoys restoring old vehicles with his sons. They are currently working on an ancient VW camper van.

**Mary Ford** was expelled from high school for a brief period after it was discovered she was profiting from a test-selling and paper-writing business. Despite the expulsion, her test scores and grades got her admitted to Johns Hopkins University as a pre-med student. She discovered she hated snooty doctors and pre-med students, but was still drawn to medicine. She is a veterinarian in Baltimore, Maryland. Throughout high school, college, and vet school, she was known as something of a heartbreaker. Her family was briefly cheered when she managed a "long term" (well, 6 month) relationship with a nice guy. Turns out, he just had good football tickets, and she dumped him as soon as the season ended.

Several years later, she butted heads with an FBI agent investigating a possible terrorist in who lived in her condo. She found the agent stuffy, humorless, uptight, and cold. In short, she hated him, and was glad when his investigation was complete. A month after that, his dog was struck by a car, and he took Rover to the nearest vet clinic – Mary's. Mary treated Rover for two weeks before sending him home in huge plastic dog collar. In those two weeks, she discovered that Agent Maxwell actually wasn't all that bad – he cared deeply for his dog, had an understated sense of humor, and liked football as much as she did. They've been married for a year. Mary is expecting their first child.

**OK, this time it's for REAL. One chapter to go!**


	31. Dear Dr Faraday

September 22, 2040

Dear Dr. Faraday,

Greetings! My name is Greg Ford, and I am a writer for _National Geographic Magazine_; however, you may be more interested to know that I am the son of James and Juliet Ford of Miami, Florida.

In the course of my time with _National Geographic_, I've had the great pleasure of reporting from many remote places across the globe. Imagine my surprise when the most life-altering assignment of my career came not in an island in the South Pacific or a remote outpost of the Sahara. Instead, the most fascinating research I've ever done took place in a London office building and a dusty basement in Ann Arbor, Michigan.

About a year ago, I was assigned a story on Charles Widmore. Mr. Widmore, as I am sure you are aware, was a wealthy British industrialist who died in 2010. Apparently, in the later years of his life, he embarked on a seemingly quixotic pursuit to find an uncharted, unknown, unheard-of island. The scuttlebutt in many a London boardroom was that Mr. Widmore had lost his marbles. My assignment was to write about Mr. Widmore's final years. Was he really a kook? Or was there more to his story? If there's an unmapped island out there, we at _National Geographic_ are keen to know!

I spent close to two weeks in London, interviewing Mr. Widmore's colleagues, social friends, and underlings. I learned much about his quest to find this island – the money he sank into the endeavor, the time he spent researching, the people he alienated. However, after 10 days in London, it was becoming increasingly clear that Mr. Widmore was, indeed, no more than an eccentric, misguided, wealthy man. I began to write my story with said angle.

Two days before I was to leave London, however, I had the great good fortune of touching base with Mr. Widmore's grandson, Charlie Hume. Charlie and I hit it off immediately, and Charlie allowed me access to many of Mr. Widmore's personal files regarding his quest. At first, these papers did nothing but reinforce the picture of Mr. Widmore as a misguided, sad, and obsessed old man.

Then I saw something that chilled me to the core. It was an induction photograph for something called the "Dharma Initiative," and was dated 1977. I had seen mention of the "Dharma Initiative" in a handful of Mr. Widmore's other papers, so this did not initially surprise me. The shocking thing about this photo was a man in the dead-center front of the photo. He looked remarkably like the man my brother, sister, and I grew up calling "Uncle Hurley." If you know my Uncle Hurley, and I believe you do (or did), you know that he is a very distinctive looking fellow. I asked Charlie what he knew of the photo, but unfortunately, aside from being the keeper of many of Mr. Widmore's personal effects, he knows little of the man himself, as his parents were estranged from Mr. Widmore.

Honestly, my first reaction was that this was an elaborate prank pulled by my twin sister. She denied it. At first I didn't believe her, but when I realized she had nothing substantive to gain from such a prank (and trust me, my sister doesn't run any schemes she won't benefit from!), I began to grow more curious about the photo. Both she and my brother thought I was being ridiculous.

I meant to ask Uncle Hurley about it, but before I did, I asked my mom and dad. I'd always been curious about their relationship with him. He was a customer at a coffee shop where my dad worked. Then he gave my dad all sorts of money to help buy a book store – across the country! This never made any sense to me. I remember asking about it several times over the course of my childhood, but my parents always said something like "Uncle Hurley is just a very generous guy." Sorry, folks, but that just never added up.

Anyway, their reactions to the photo were all I needed to know that something more than an elaborate hoax was at work. I set the photo down on their kitchen table, and my mother must have paled three shades. If you know my mother, and I believe you do (or did), you must know that she is not one to display unguarded emotions. She's happy when she's happy, sad when she's sad, but I've never in my life see her lose control of her face or show an emotion she doesn't mean to show – until I put that photo in front of her.

Of course, before I had a chance to process what I was seeing, my dad slapped his hand down on the table and started laughing. "I'll tell you who's behind this," he said. "It's gotta be Miles. Little motherfucker." And then Mom said "James. . ." as she's done my whole life whenever Dad says something inappropriate. By the time I turned and looked at her again, whatever look it was that had crossed her face was gone. She, too, was laughing about what a lark Uncle Miles had pulled.

While I'm on the subject, I must say that Uncle Miles is yet another family curiosity. How is it that my folks are such good friends with this guy who lives on the West Coast and is some kind of medium or seer or maybe even just a quick-talking scam artist? Quite frankly, Mom and Dad have never explained that one to my satisfaction.

Anyway, not long after this conversation with my folks, I called both Uncle Hurley and Uncle Miles, and sure enough (oh ho ho ho! The hilarity!), they spun the same story about Uncle Miles pulling this great prank. How I always asked too many questions, and didn't I regret it now, and how they'd loved to have seen the expression on my face when I saw that photo. Nice, guys, but since their explanations were almost word-for-word similar, my suspicions were not quite assuaged.

I was at a dead end, though. Seriously, what was next? I'd read all of Charles Widmore's papers. And what was I looking for anyway? Proof that Uncle Hurley was in the Dharma Initiative (as an adult) in 1977? And that my parents were somehow aware of this insane fact? Crazy talk.

So I dropped it until I received an email from Charlie Hume. The Department of Anatomy at the University of Michigan contacted him about a basement of papers they needed cleared out. They couldn't determine to whom the papers belonged, but a note in the files indicated that Mr. Widmore had at one point in time offered a princely sum for them. The department contacted Charlie as Mr. Widmore's sole known heir. Charlie had no interest in the papers, but he put them in contact with me.

Two days later I was sitting in a basement in Ann Arbor, poring over boxes and boxes of what was, to me, indecipherable scientific notes, equations, graphs, charts, etc. I was an English major, Dr. Faraday (in my family, the women handle the science!). The name "Daniel Faraday" appeared over and over again, and I made a note of it.

Finally, I found a paper I could make sense of. Typed at the top was "Submarine Manifest. July 16, 1977." Underneath was a typed list of names. Unremarkable, except that two names were crossed out. Then, handwritten to the sides of the crossed-out names, two new names were written. It took me a second to decipher them. [Oh, I was so naïve! The actual thought I had was "This person's handwriting is as bad as Mom's!" Something that should have been my first clue.] The names? _Hugo Reyes_, _Jack Shephard_. Dr. Shephard's is another name I recognize from my childhood. I had my copy of the 1977 induction photo with me, but as I've never met Dr. Shephard in person, I was unable to tell if he was in the photo. I couldn't believe it. Could I be on to something? No way Uncle Miles was pulling an elaborate hoax involving the University of Michigan Department of Anatomy.

Recharged, I plowed through several more boxes until I found a box of photos. There, clear as day, was a photo of my dad and Uncle Miles, dressed in ridiculous tan jumpsuits, rifles slung on their shoulders. The label on the back read "Dharma Security Team members, 1976. Head of Security, Jim LaFleur (left)." This is not my father's name, but the man on left in the picture is undoubtedly my father – at a time when he should have been eight years old. As far as I know, Uncle Miles wasn't even born in 1976! Pardon my French, Dr. Faraday, but what the hell was going on???

Later, I found another pictured labeled "New Years 1976." The picture is, quite clearly, my parents. Not seven and five years old, as they should have been on New Year's Eve 1975/'76, but full-grown adults. Mom is facing the camera with a huge grin, eyes shut. Dad is kissing her cheek and seen only in profile, but it is, without a doubt my parents.

None of this made a lick of sense to me. I tried to focus more on the scientific papers, particularly the ones with your name on them . . . it was just a hunch I had. You see, my full name is "Daniel Gregory Ford." I am called "Greg," after my maternal grandfather who died before my first birthday. My parents have always claimed I was named "Daniel" after someone they knew "from a long time before you kids came along." Fair enough, but, Dr. Faraday, my parents met _9 months to the day_ before my older brother was born. Do the math on that one, and you will agree that, for my parents, there was NO "long time before you kids came along." It's entirely possible I am completely off-base, sir, but I just felt in my bones that the key to this mystery was in the papers with your – my – name on them.

From what I can gather on your papers (and I'll admit, it's not much), it seems the bulk of your research was on time travel, affecting the past, the future, and the present. And, quite frankly (God, I cannot believe I am typing these words), time travel is the only way any of this makes sense. Dr. Faraday, I have Googled you, and I have researched your career. According to everything I can find, you are not some sort of misguided, crazy kook. Your academic postings, your published research, your distinguished career in physics all lead me to believe that I am on to something very real.

Aside from my reporter's instincts, and general desire to get to the truth, I have a much deeper concern here. I feel as if my parents' relationship has all been a lie. I feel somewhat as if I've long misunderstood my entire existence. On the other hand, all the things in life that have never quite added up -- Uncle Hurley, Uncle Miles, our good friends, the super-rich Korean family, my name – suddenly seem like part of a larger pattern.

Dr. Faraday, please contact me either by phone, email, or letter. My information is all listed on the letterhead. I will be in Miami for most of the fall and winter. I was offered an assignment in Tunisia, but my wife is due to give birth to our second child in mid-November. I did seriously consider taking the 2-month Tunisian assignment, but Dad told me "Only an asshole would miss the birth of his child." He speaks from experience, and he convinced me. So, I will be in Miami for the next little while, but available at the drop of a hat for a day trip to Boston. Please let me know.

Oh! Of course, you may be interested to know what my folks are up to these days. Mom retired five years ago. She went to work immediately as a clerk in Dad's book store. That lasted about six weeks. I swear, they were an eyelash away from killing each other. My brother, sister, and I found it quite comical. Anyway, Dad sold the store about a year ago, but he still does a few shifts a week at the coffee shop. Otherwise, they travel to see my brother and sister, babysit the grandkids, and entertain each other with a weekly game of Battleship (of all things!). My brother's in the Navy, and he finds this particular detail of their life highly amusing.

Dr. Faraday, thank you for your time. Thank you for reading the rambling musings of a too-curious reporter, and please, contact me in whatever way you think best.

Sincerely yours,

Greg Ford

* * *

Dear Mr. Ford,

I am so sorry to tell you that your letter arrived in the mail three days after Daniel passed away. He has been ill for the past year. I only wish your letter had arrived sooner, as Daniel would have been quite interested in its content.

That said, I, too, am very familiar with the scenario you have laid out, and think that I can answer most (if not all) of your questions, and would be happy to meet with you at any time.

I think, though, that it is best if you first allow your parents to read both your letter to Dan and my response to you. This is their story to tell, and they should be given the first opportunity to tell it.

Let me assure you of one thing, though: Your parents' relationship is not based on a lie. I knew them in my young adulthood, in my childhood, and Daniel and I have both kept up with them over the years. It is somewhat difficult to explain the physics of the various ways I have known your mum and dad, but suffice it to say, I do know them. They have very clearly (and I believe wisely) not told you the full truth. I do know they have only wanted what's best for you, your brother, and sister. Please give them a chance to tell you their story.

After which, please contact me again. You may find the whole thing a bit much to swallow, and I may be able to provide you with assurance that neither you, your dad, nor your mum are going crazy.

My best wishes to you,

Charlotte L. Faraday

**THE END**

**YES! It is finally over! Can you even believe it?? No more epilogues, no more nothing -- except, yes, my other story, don't remind me :-)! I have a secret personal goal of getting 300 reviews and I'm ALLLLLLMOSSST there. So, this is it, and these will be the last reviews, so go for it! Maybe there will be a prize for the 300th review or something.**

And thanks to you all for all your kind words over the entire course of this entirely too long story that only took what? Six months to write. If I'd known that, I never would have started in the first place!


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